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LITTLE DAVID 


( 


By the Same Author 
THE HOUSE OF THE BEAUTIFUL HOPE 


LITTLE DAVID 


BY 

ROBERT STUART CHRISTIE 



NEW YORK 

THOMAS SELTZER 
1923 








s 




Copyright, 1923, by 
Thomas Seltzer, Inc. 


All Rights Reserved 



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


©ClA759752c/ 

NOV -7 *23 



/V\S a/ 



TO ALL 

IN SEARCH OF HAPPINESS 






CONTENTS 


CHAP. PAGE 

I In which Little David Appears. 1 

II The Black Bull at Tipping Horley .... 12 

III The Blace: Bull at Tipping Horley ( continued ) 23 

IV In which Little David Disappears .... 39 

V In which Little David Disappears ( continued ) 50 

VI The Three Mighty Beings of Mead House, 

Soho .59 

VII In which Little David Peeps over the Horizon 71 

VIII The Terrible Ordeal of John Henry Millman 85 

IX In which Little David Weeps Bitterly ... 97 

X The Arrival of John Henry Millman at the 

Red House .109 

XI In which Little David Again Appears . . . 140 

XII The Distress of Three Decent and Ordinary 

Men .161 







CONTENTS 


CHAP. PAGE 

XIII In which Little David Nearly Disappears . 184 

XIV The Two Beautiful Creatures Grow Im¬ 

patient .200 

XV In which Little David Determines to Remain 

for Ever . .. 212 

XVI The Consternation of John Henry Millman 227 

XVII In which Little David Flees Precipitately 241 

XVIII The Awakening of John Henry Millman . . 259 

XIX In which Little David Forgets Himself . . 279 

XX The Strange Behaviour of John Henry 

Millman. 292 


XXI In which Little David Becomes Lost for Ever 310 





LITTLE DAVID 





LITTLE DAVID 


CHAPTER I 

IN WHICH LITTLE DAVID APPEARS 

This story starts where the other one ends: but that does not 
matter. It is always so in life, and as this is all about what 
actually did happen—you will readily believe me, for it is so 
strange, and foolish, and not at all like a decent novel or a proper 
work of fiction—I feel perfectly entitled to commence abruptly 
and at once. Why, bless your heart! we all, every one of us, 
commenced life itself in this very fashion; found ourselves plump 
in the middle of things, as you might say, and ready to carry on; 
and some of us, no doubt, did carry on to the full capacity of our 
lungs. I did for one, but John Henry Millman did not. He 
was a funniment from the first. I saw him when he was a few 
moments old, and he impressed me with his excessive solemnity: 
but that all took place in the other story which does not matter. 

Well, John Henry Millman was walking up Blank Street, Soho, 
and towards the tube station; Ralph Seymour and Sinclair Dodds 
were walking down Blank Street, Soho, and away from the tube 
station; and nothing on earth could have prevented their meeting 
face to face, for they were walking on the same pavement, if Little 
David had not made a last and despairing effort to escape from 
the Dainty Brute. Little David did do so, however, and immediately 
a crowd appeared as if by magic from nowhere; surrounded the 
pair; and formed an effective barrier between John Henry Millman 
and the two gentlemen who occupied his thoughts. John Henry, I 
hasten to add, was, at this important epoch in his life, fully eight 
and twenty years of age. I add this lest you might be led astray 
by his age mentioned in the previous paragraph. John Henry 

1 


2 


LITTLE DAVID 


was a remarkable child, a most remarkable child, although only 
one other person apart from myself thought so at the time, but 
he was not so remarkable as that. He showed no inclination to 
walk up Blank Street or any other street, except, perhaps, the 
streets of the hearts of two very foolish people, till a fit and seemly 
age arrived. 

Ralph Seymour and Sinclair Dodds, wise and prudent members 
of society, paused on the outskirts of the crowd and peered over 
the heads of the people towards the centre and cause of disturbance. 
There appeared to be a disturbance, too, and one of some 
magnitude. Little David, shaking consumedly, with a white face, 
terror-ridden eyes, and every outward appearance of excessive 
fright and distress, was making a frenzied appeal, to no one in 
particular, to be rescued from his captor. The Dainty Brute—his 
real name was Isaac Farstein—dressed in beautifully cut clothes, 
with a silk hat on his head, a flower in his buttonhole, and a 
pained expression on his handsome face, held Little David firmly 
by the scruff of the neck with one hand; extended the other hand in 
rapid gestures reminiscent of the tribe from which he had sprung; 
and explained matters to the attentive crowd. 

“He is my son,” said the Dainty Brute, in a quivering voice, 
“my only child, and I, myself, am responsible for this. I have 
loved him too much, treated him too well, and now he is repaying 
me with black ingratitude. Twice he has been saved from pros¬ 
ecution by a miracle, and at last I have caught him red-handed. 
When I have refused to supply more money than was good, he has 
stolen it. I have tried kindness, but now I must resort to force. 
To-day I followed him to a pawnshop, and found him there in the 
act of disposing of his poor mother’s engagement ring.” 

The Dainty Brute extracted a diamond ring from his pocket and 
held it aloft for inspection. There was a slight element of risk 
about this, but the Dainty Brute did not lack courage; also he 
thought the chance was small that the lady, from whom he had 
abstracted the ring on the previous night, might be in the crowd. 


LITTLE DAVID APPEARS 


3 


It was. She was, at that moment, bewailing her loss in Scotland 
Yard, in silks, furs, and a flood of tears; and her description of 
the missing article was sufficiently incoherent to be more useful to 
the Dainty Brute than to the police. 

The crowd saw the ring flash in the sunlight; saw the well 
dressed, saddened man; noted that Little David did not deny the 
charge but continued to struggle and appeal in a frenzied fashion; 
and they murmured sympathetically. Little David was too far 
gone over the borders of terror to listen to what was said about 
him. The crowd, without exception, sided with the Dainty Brute. 
Ralph Seymour and Sinclair Dodds voiced the general opinion. 

“A gentleman—obviously. Look at his clothes!” said Sinclair 
Dodds. 

“Rich, I should imagine,” murmured Ralph Seymour. “The 
ring is very handsome. Poor fellow, it is a sad case. He feels 
it too. It is written on his face. The boy should be thrashed till 
he is sore!’ , 

“I have a good mind to speak to him,” said Sinclair Dodds. 
“Our office is near at hand. He might prove useful. One never 
knows—!” His voice trailed into silence. His expression altered. 
He seemed to grow at least six inches taller. He became, in a 
moment, something that was grand, and awe-inspiring, and 
majestic. He was no longer a mere man, but one wrapped in the 
mantle of an immense dignity. 

“Yes!” said Ralph Seymour. “You were about to—!” He 
paused abruptly, and the same remarkable alteration took place 
in his appearance. Any one who looked could not have failed to 
notice this, but no one did look. The interest was centred on 
Little David and his captor. 

“John Henry Millman!” breathed Ralph Seymour. 

“Precisely!” responded Sinclair Dodds. 

They stood—but I shall not now explain how they stood or the 
reason for all this, that will come later on and in its proper place. 
John Henry Millman advanced through the crowd, paying no 


4 


LITTLE DAVID 


attention to any one, absorbed in his own thoughts; and when 
John Henry was thoroughly absorbed in his own thoughts he was 
quite capable of failing to see his best friends, or his worst enemies, 
if they rubbed shoulders with him in passing. He forged ahead 
steadily, reached the heart of the crowd and paused, his progress 
impeded by Little David who, by now, was almost hysterical and 
perilously near the verge of tears. 

“Take me away from him!” pleaded Little David, and he held 
out both hands imploringly, but he did not cease to struggle 
and his actions were rapid and spasmodic like the movements of 
a marionette: a marionette where the strings are faulty and the 
doll may collapse at any moment. 

The words penetrated to John Henry’s intelligence, and dis¬ 
pelled his thoughts. He regarded the white, strained face, and 
the small, struggling figure with attention, and he shot a keen 
glance at the Dainty Brute. 

“Certainly,” he said, without hesitation, and he wrenched the 
boy free with a sudden dive which left the Dainty Brute gasping 
with astonishment. The boy, released, clung to John Henry’s coat 
with both hands, buried his face in the cloth, and fell to shudder¬ 
ing violently. John Henry slipped an arm protectingly round his 
shoulders and turned to face the Dainty Brute who, by now, had 
recovered himself. The crowd growled with antagonism. 

“How dare you snatch my son out of my hands?” demanded 
the Dainty Brute furiously. “You shall pay for this! Where is 
a policeman?” and he attempted to lay hold of Little David. 

John Henry warded off the attempt with his free arm, caught 
the wrist of the Dainty Brute in a grasp of steel, and, experiencing 
a sudden desire to sneeze, fumbled with his other hand in an inner 
breast pocket. 

“There is no necessity to call a policeman,” he said evenly, “for 
I am—” he paused abruptly, forgot to sneeze, and abandoned the 
search for his handkerchief at one and the same time. 

The Dainty Brute, with an action quite as sudden as John 


LITTLE DAVID APPEARS 


5 


Henry’s, had wrenched himself free, forced a way through the 
crowd, and was lost to sight in a moment round the corner of the 
street. 

“—About to lead you to one,” ended John Henry mechanically. 
‘‘You poor little fellow,” he said in an altered voice. “There is 
nothing to fear now, for he has gone.” 

Little David moved a trifle, clung closer, and burst into a 
torrent of passionate weeping. John Henry slipped his other arm 
round him, and the action brushed back the sleeve of Little David’s 
coat, disclosing cruel, livid marks on the wrist and arm. The 
crowd gasped and became vastly sympathetic. Ralph Seymour 
voiced the general thought and Sinclair Dodds gave his hearty 
approval. 

“I knew the man was bad the moment I set eyes on him,” he 
said with conviction. “The boy has been treated shamefully. I 
do not believe that he is his son. The man thought John Henry 
Millman was a plain-clothes detective and fled. My heart bleeds 
for the little creature!” 

At that moment round the comer of the street appeared a police 
officer who rapidly forced his way through the crowd. You may 
wonder that one had not appeared before, but although this has 
taken a long time to tell, it happened all in the space of a few 
moments: also Blank Street is a very baby of a street, and too 
small to justify much attention from the police. 

“Now, what is all this about?” inquired the officer. “What 
are you all doing here?” 

A dozen mouths opened to reply, but they remained open and 
speechless. John Henry had looked up from the boy and round 
the ring of faces, and the expression of John Henry, just then, was 
rather fierce than otherwise. 

“They are going away at once,” said John Henry with emphasis 
and some slight scorn. “They are going very quickly because 
they know just what I think about them, and if they wait a few 
seconds longer they will hear it too!” 


6 


LITTLE DAVID 


The crowd dispersed hurriedly and in silence, and with them 
went Ralph Seymour and Sinclair Dodds. As a point of interest 
it should be noted that these latter gentlemen had lost the dreadful 
majesty which had enveloped them at the approach of John Henry. 
Indeed they were quite indistinguishable from the others, and this 
—when you learn about them later on—you will wonder at as I 
do, for it was John Henry’s words which wrought the change—a 
most extraordinary phenomenon. 

The constable, a young fresh faced officer, rubbed his chin and 
stood regarding John Henry and Little David with distrust and 
considerable disfavour. The crowd, having retired to a respectable 
distance, hung about in groups talking with animation, obviously 
devoured with curiosity, and seemingly half minded to return. 
John Henry, with a total disregard of the stalwart arm of 
the law, gave all his attention to Little David who, making 
a valiant attempt to stop weeping, sniffed, and shook, and 
held on to John Henry’s coat as a drowning man might cling 
to a spar. 

“All right, little brother,” said John Henry gently, “you are 
quite safe with me. We shall go away together and no one shall 
harm you if I can help it.” 

Little David raised a white, twitching face, glanced in a scared, 
inquiring fashion at John Henry, and apparently satisfied with 
his survey, tightened the grip of one hand and releasing the other, 
commenced to dabble his eyes with an extremely dirty handkerchief. 
John Henry, producing a clean one, offered it as a substitute. 
The constable—he had a wife and child of his own—leant 
forward on a sudden impulse born of the sight of Little David’s 
face. 

“Terrified out of his wits, he is,” he said. “Poor little chap! 
You take him away quietly before I hear anything about it.” 
His manner altered and he became statuesque. He frowned on 
John Henry and his voice was loud and commanding. “Now then, 
will you move on! Obstructing the pavement, you are! Next 


LITTLE DAVID APPEARS 


7 


time your brother wants to weep in public, take a bus to Epping 
Forest; it’s quiet under the trees!” 

John Henry stopped a taxi-cab and half lifting Little David, 
deposited him inside and followed himself. As the cab swung 
into Charing Cross Road the remnants of the crowd, swarming 
round the constable, overwhelmed him with a babel of talk. I 
have no record of what the people said, or the constable replied; 
all I know is that the matter ended there so far as they were 
concerned. 

Little David crouched in one comer of the cab, with his face 
buried in his hands, while his shoulders twitched and his body 
shook in a fashion that affected John Henry’s throat, making it 
necessary for him to cough violently. He sat in the other comer 
of the cab and studied the boy with attention, and as he did this 
his cough increased in violence till it became a positive nuisance, 
so that he was obliged to execute a complicated manoeuvre with his 
handkerchief. This appeared to ease matters, although it is 
worthy of note that John Henry’s cough affected his eyes quite as 
much as it troubled his throat. An interesting phenomenon which, 
no doubt, a doctor could easily explain. 

Little David was small, and slender, and obviously very young. 
John Henry decided that he must be about twelve or fourteen years 
of age; and having reached this decision he thought that the lad 
was too tall for that age; and then he recalled what he had seen of 
his face and came to the conclusion that he was older; and finally 
he abandoned the point as of no importance. The boy was dressed 
in a lounge suit of grey cloth, a soiled fawn overcoat which was 
much too wide and a trifle too long, and he had a cloth cap pulled 
well down over the head which partly concealed the face. His 
hands and feet were very small, and the former were very dirty. 
His head appeared to fill the cap, which was large, very com¬ 
pletely; and all that John Henry could see of him was this huge 
cap resting on the top of the overcoat with the two small grubby 
hands spread over the face,, A lurch of tlje cab sent the boy against. 


8 


LITTLE DAVID 


the side and the loose sleeves of the coat slipped back from his 
wrists, and this brought on John Henry’s cough with redoubled 
violence. 

“I always cough when I am in a cab,” said John Henry with 
dignity. “I do it on purpose to let the driver know I am not 
afraid of him, and have enough money to pay the fare.” 

Little David made no response. 

“I cannot bear to see you sitting shuddering with those cruel 
marks on your arms,” said John Henry, when he could contain 
himself no longer. “I want to stop the cab, get out, and kill 
somebody. I don’t care what you have done, no one has the right 
to maltreat a child so savagely!” 

Little David started and stopped shaking. He moved so that 
he faced John Henry, but he did not remove his hands. The 
fingers separated a trifle, however, and from behind them John 
Henry knew that he' was being searchingly scrutinized. Little 
David abruptly transferred his gaze from John Henry’s face to the 
cab, and from the cab to the street outside, and his hands fell by 
his sides. 

“Where are you taking me?” he asked, and he grasped the 
seat as if prepared to spring out at a moment’s notice. 

The white face, wide-open terrified eyes, and the soft quivering 
lips seen in the shelter of the huge cap, made it difficult for John 
Henry to reply with his customary clearness of speech. He was 
a trifle startled, too, for he had no definite idea as to where they 
were eventually going. He had told the man to drive to Padding¬ 
ton, selecting the place because it was some distance away with a 
view to eluding a possible pursuit by the constable, the crowd, or 
the Dainty Brute, but their ultimate destination he had expected 
to learn from Little David himself. 

“At present we are going to Paddington,” he said, after a 
second, “and from there we shall go just wherever you please. If 
you tell me where you live, I shall take you home.” 

Little David shuddered. 


LITTLE DAVID APPEARS 


9 


“I cannot go home,” he said in a whisper. “I am afraid 
Father would turn me out.” 

“The brute!” said John Henry with indignation. “By the 
way, the man in the silk hat, surely he was not your father!” 

The mention of the Dainty Brute affected Little David much as 
the sight of a man-eating tiger might affect a normal gentleman, 
if—on looking over his shoulder on the top of a bus—he saw one 
seated behind him. He shook with terror, glanced wildly around 
as if the Dainty Brute might be concealed in the cab, and slipping 
along the seat, grasped John Henry’s coat with both hands. 

“Promise to take me away from him,” he gasped. “He might 
catch me again and then I shall be lost for ever. You will pro¬ 
tect me! I am so frightened! He is not my father. They call 
him the Dainty Brute, and he is bad—wicked! He beat me when 
I refused to do what he asked. He would have killed me if he had 
not been afraid. He took me away in a car and I escaped, but he 
caught me again in the street. I had no place to go to, and the 
crowds of people confused me. You will take me away?” 

The words came in a rapid torrent of speech. John Henry, 
looking down at the small face at his elbow, marvelled at the 
delicate, finely modelled features of the little fellow, and at his 
pitiable state of fear. He spoke and acted just as any other man 
would have done in like circumstances. He drew Little David 
close to him and patted his head reassuringly. 

“I am taking you away,” he said, “and shall continue to do so 
till you tell me to stop. As for the Dainty Brute you have nothing 
to fear from him. I shall look after you till your father is eager 
to do so. Fathers, you know, are apt to be fierce at times, but the 
fierceness comes from the heart; and when the heart is lonely it 
forgets everything except how much it is missing a loved one who 
is lost. It takes time, occasionally, for this to come about, but it 
does come about sooner or later. Of that there is no doubt.” 

Little David retreated to his comer, but he retained a hold on 
John Henry’s coat with one hand. 


10 


LITTLE DAVID 


“My father does not care what happens to me,” he said. “He 
never speaks except to tell me to be quiet, or to ask me to leave 
the room. He has more consideration for his dogs.” 

John Henry covered the hand which grasped his coat with both 
his own. 

“You are not afraid of me?” he asked. 

“No,” said Little David. “Not just now.” 

“Very good,” said John Henry, “then I shall take you home. 
I have one room, a large window, a cat, and Veronica. They will 
all welcome you. You can sleep in my bed and I can camp out on 
the rug. I live near Paddington. We can walk from the station.” 

The covered hand quivered. 

“I Gannot do that. She would hate me,” said Little David with 
extraordinary vehemence. “I must go away from London. I 
would be afraid, terrified, to pass another night here shut in by 
all these houses, listening to steps in the street and imagining that 
they had come to take me with each knock at the door. I must go 
to the country where it is quiet and you can run into the woods and 
hide.” 

“I defy any one who looks at you to hate you, least of all Ver¬ 
onica,” said John Henry. “You are such a pretty little fellow. 
There is something odd about you, too, that is very appealing; still, 
if you do not wish to go home, we shall not go there. What is your 
name, little brother?” 

Little David drew his coat closely around him and partly dis¬ 
appeared behind the collar. A tinge of colour crept into his cheeks 
and he appeared to be unsettled in his mind. 

“David is my name,” he said, and the words came as if jerked 
from his lips by some power apart from his own control. 

John Henry gave the hand under his own a gentle squeeze. 

“To me,” he said, “you shall always be Little David, and as 
this is Paddington, Little David, we must get out.” 

They got out. John Henry tendered a note to the taxidriver 
who had no change. Then he commenced to search his pockets* 


LITTLE DAVID APPEARS 


11 


unearthing stray coins of various denominations, but the total was 
insufficient. A porter, volunteering to supply change, did so to 
the nearest shilling. John Henry paid the fare, thanked the porter, 
pocketed his collection of coins; and all this time Little David 
stood beside him quivering and casting fearful glances at every 
passer-by and never, for one second, slackening his hold on John 
Henry’s coat. 

“Now then, Little David,” said John Henry, and clasping the 
hand which grasped his coat he entered the station, walked with 
assurance towards the booking office, and it was not till the 
exasperated clerk had twice asked him where he wanted to go to, 
that John Henry remembered he did not know. This was due to the 
fact that he was thinking profoundly. 

“Where are we going, Little David?” he asked. 

“Tipping Horley,” said Little David. 

“Two thirds to Tipping Horley,” said John Henry. 

“You are quite sure you want to go there?” sarcastically 
inquired the clerk. 

“Quite!” said John Henry, and he spoke the simple truth. 

At that Little David took a second, and even firmer grasp of 
John Henry’s coat with his other hand, and in this fashion they 
went in search of a train. Now it is odd but a fact that John 
Henry did not think there was anything strange about this. 
He did not even think about it at all. His mind was filled with the 
thought that Little David was holding fast, not to his coat, but to 
his heart. A foolish notion, but foolish notions found a ready 
home in the mind of John Henry Millman. He was born like 
that. You must not blame him. It was not his fault. 


CHAPTER II 


THE BLACK BULL AT TIPPING HORLEY 

You may wonder what sort of a man John Henry Millman was, 
and I hasten to assure you that he was quite a nice man to look at. 
Little David thought so, and he had a good opportunity of study¬ 
ing him in the train. John Henry was of medium height, indeed 
he might be looked on as too short, but, since he was not over¬ 
burdened with flesh, this was not apparent. He had a broad chest, 
powerful arms, and a body that was not without shape and come¬ 
liness. His hands were large with long, tapering fingers, and there 
was nothing remarkable about his feet. This may not sound very 
attractive, but on the top of it all was John Henry’s head; and 
when you looked at his head, and in particular at his face, you 
were apt to take a more kindly view of the rest of his person. John 
Henry’s head was massive and thatched with a close-cut crop of hair 
which curled when it was allowed to grow, and his face, which 
was open and homely, was beautified by the eyes and mouth. 
John Henry’s eyes either looked at you directly with an honest 
inquiry that was exceedingly arresting, or else they gazed at you 
with a profound contemplation that held no bitterness or scorn. 
His mouth was small, with full, sensitive lips that had a trick of 
melting into sudden smiles of sympathy and understanding. 

Little David sat, lost in the size of his coat and cap, and gazed 
at John Henry who faced him. He appeared to have forgotten his 
fears for the time being, and he remained very still. John Henry, 
who had a habit of noticing everything, perceived this and smiled; 
and when John Henry smiled he looked exceedingly attractive. 
Little David thought so and sighed, whereupon John Henry’s 

12 


THE BLACK BULL 


13 


mind commenced to revolve round the problem of what was 
eventually to be done with Little David, and his face grew serious. 
He contemplated the small figure and became abstracted in a mist 
of conjecture, and pity, and odd imaginings; and as all these 
thoughts passed through his mind they were expressed on his face. 
They journeyed on in this manner—the train was a slow one and 
stopped at every station—till Little David suddenly sat up to 
announce that they had arrived at their destination. 

John Henry, who by that time had successively selected a school, 
an occupation, and a successful career for Little David, returned 
to practical matters with a start, and descended from the train. 
Tipping Horley, to judge by the station, seemed a small place, 
and this it proved to be. They found themselves in the main street 
of the town as the clocks were striking ten. 

“Now where,” asked John Henry, “are we going to spend the 
night?” 

“I don’t know,” said Little David, and he took a timid hold of 
John Henry’s coat and once more commenced to shake. 

“No!” said John Henry, slightly astonished. He considered 
the point for a second, and then arrived at a decision. “Of course 
you do not,” he said reassuringly, “but I do. We must find an 
inn, or its equivalent.” 

They walked along the street, and a lighted shop, still open, 
attracted the attention of John Henry. He went towards it, entered, 
and it was not until he was right inside that John Henry realized 
the nature of the shop. It was small, diminutive, and the entire 
stock in trade appeared to be composed of the unmentionable 
garments which ladies wear next their skin. A stout, matronly 
female arose like an indignant fury from the rear of the premises; 
two young females, who were laying out goods in the foreground, 
paused in their task in confusion; and Little David uttered a 
sound that was surprisingly like a laugh. 

John Henry, thoroughly winded, grew red, said nothing, and 
remained with a startled expression on his face. 


14 


LITTLE DAVID 


“What do you want, young man?” inquired the stout female, 
and the emphasis she placed on the you held such a wealth of 
sarcastic meaning that John Henry experienced the sensations of a 
malefactor caught in the act of wrongdoing. He sought for an 
excuse for his presence and found one. 

“I wish,” he said, with great distinctness, “to buy two pairs of 
pyjamas. One pair large, and one pair small—for my wife and 
daughter,” he added hurriedly, as the stout female opened her 
mouth to speak. 

“Irq- deed!” said the stout female. She directed a searching 
glance at Little David,, who immediately drew his coat around him 
and commenced to shake violently. “i»-deed, and is this your 
wife, or your daughter?” 

John Henry looked down at Little David and slipped an arm 
protectingly around him. 

“This is my Little David,” he said, “who is scared out of his 
wits because we are so far from home.” 

“In- deed!” repeated the stout female for the third time, but her 
business instincts overcame her curiosity. She drew out various 
bundles, and selecting two pair of pyjamas at which John Henry 
looked with alarm, tied them up in a parcel, pocketed the money, 
and following John Henry to the door, gave voice to a word of 
advice. 

“I should advise you, young man, either to buy a pair of 
spectacles, or to study the ten commandments. Furthermore you 
might do your shopping within business hours and not when 
business people are stocktaking, and if you think your wife is 
going to be pleased with these pyjamas, you are making a great 
mistake.” 

John Henry was about to reply to this extraordinary utterance, 
but Little David, tugging at his sleeve, hurried him away before he 
had time to open his mouth. John Henry was not loath to go. 

“I wonder what she meant?” he said. 

Little David remained silent, but when the Black Bull hove in 


THE BLACK BULL 


15 


sight, on the outskirts of the village, and they paused to look at 
it, he spoke. 

“She was a horrid woman,” said Little David, with quite unnec¬ 
essary emphasis. “The way she looked at me! I hate her!” 

John Henry started and stared at the boy with sudden curiosity. 

“Extraordinary!” he said. “You spoke, just as I have heard 
Veronica speak, when she is talking about Mrs. Baldwin.” 

Now Mrs. Baldwin was a shrew with a bitter tongue, under 
which Veronica, who was devoted to John Henry, had frequently 
wilted. Little David, naturally, had no knowledge of either 
Veronica or Mrs. Baldwin, but he appeared to wish to divert 
John Henry’s mind from the subject. He drew him towards the 
Black Bull. 

The Black Bull is a small, two-storied inn, where the elite of 
the village consume their beer of an evening in the sanded bar; 
and where, on sundry occasions of state, high revelry is held in the 
long dining-room which serves as the sole public room of the 
house. John Henry, propelled by Little David, passed in through 
the open door with unnecessary haste, and halted before a rotund, 
red-faced gentleman, in shirt sleeves and white apron, who barred 
their progress with uplifted hand. 

“Not to-night,” said this jovial party, with decision. “Trade 
is trade, but never let your business interfere with your heart. 
That’s my motto, and I never mean to forsake it. My heart’s in 
there”—he jerked his thumb in the direction of a closed door on 
the right—“so it’s no use arguing.” 

As if in answer to this statement, a loud and prolonged burst of 
cheering broke out in the room indicated, interspersed by a volley 
of taps and rappings, and followed by a babel of talk. The 
rotund gentleman, resting his hands on his hips, smiled in a jolly, 
rollicking fashion; nodded once or twice; and then continued his 
conversation. 

“Breakfast, lunches, dinners, suppers, served in a commodious 
well-appointed, old English dining-room; best food and most 


16 


LITTLE DAVID 


obliging waiters; parties catered for, large or small; cars accom¬ 
modated, and horses put up. At your service, gentlemen, late and 
early; but never when the Tipping Horley Minstrels meet to dis¬ 
cuss their art. I played the drum, myself, when there was less of 
me than there is now—and that is that.” 

“Oh!” said John Henry. “I understand. Your dining-room 
is occupied. But what we want is a couple of rooms for the night. 
We have come too far, and cannot get home till morning.” 

“There’s some in there,” said the rotund gentleman, again 
jerking his thumb, “as will go too far likewise, and be quite 
unable to get home till morning. The Flute is a rare lad! Listen 
to him!” 

A mournful, distressing sound mingled with, and finally con¬ 
quered the babel of talk. It increased in volume in jerks and 
sudden spurts, and reminded John Henry of some familiar tune, 
but what it was he was unable to determine. The rotund gentleman 
listened, with half-closed eyes and back-flung head, wafting him¬ 
self backwards and forwards in an ecstasy. John Henry, from 
motives of delicacy, listened also; and Little David, who had com¬ 
menced to shake again in real earnest, gave every sign of relapsing 
into the state of blind terror in which he had been when John 
Henry first met him. 

The rotund gentleman, assuming an attitude of concentrated 
expectation, raised a warning finger. As if by magic, the music 
abruptly ceased. A confused murmuring arose, grew louder, and 
merged gradually into the former babel of talk. 

“He always stops there—to wipe his eyes,” explained the 
rotund gentleman. “A born musician, he is, if ever there was 
one. That is only the third time he has tried to go through the 
whole piece to-night. He gets so worked up, he can’t go on nohow. 
They never cheer him. They have too much feeling. Make them 
weep, he will, when he is properly wound up to it, but it takes 
time.” 

John Henry started, and Little David uttered a shriek, as the 


THE BLACK BULL 


17 


door burst open, giving free passage to the noise and allowing 
two highly-elevated gentlemen to stagger out. They approached 
the rotund landlord, talking volubly, seized him one by either arm, 
and, in spite of his half-hearted protests, dragged him into the 
room and closed the door. Little David clung to John Henry’s 
coat while his teeth chattered in his head. John Henry might 
have attempted to stop the landlord if it had not been for this. As 
it was he stood still and forgot about him. 

“You will not see him again to-night,” said a deep voice from 
the rear. “Nor to-morrow morning either, or I’m no judge.” 

John Henry, turning round, confronted the speaker who was a 
tall, thin, melancholy-looking man clad, like the landlord, in 
apron and shirt sleeves. The apron was soiled and bespattered 
with countless spots. He had a drooping moustache; a growth of 
beard which appeared to be unintentional; and he looked, on the 
whole, like a sorry and dispirited ghost. A cast in his eyes gave 
him a weird expression, and he did not gaze at John Henry but, 
apparently, away and past him at some far distant prospect. 

“Half past twelve to-morrow,” said the melancholy man with 
an air of finality, and he leant against the banisters—he stood at 
the foot of the stairs—as if it were his intention to remain there 
till that time arrived. 

John Henry, considerably astonished, was at a loss for words. 
Little David, trembling like a leaf in the wind, regarded the 
melancholy man with distrust, and seemed in a half mind to flee. 
The latter gentleman, without altering his position or giving any 
sign that he saw the strangers, continued his conversation. 

“Tipping Horley Minstrels!” he said with concentrated scorn. 
“Tippling Howling Maniacs! Music! Give me a penny comb 
and a piece of paper and I’ll give you better. The Flute! Give 
me a knife, and I’ll cut his throat. I would like to cut all their 
throats, but you can seldom do what you like. I’ve learnt that 
by now, and it’s some consolation.” 

“Excuse me,” interrupted John Henry, “but—” 


18 


LITTLE DAVID 


“You! Carry the gentleman to No. 4. You! See that he is 
comfortable in bed. You! Stand by to help the gentlemen when 
they leave/’ continued the melancholy man, totally disregarding 
John Henry. “No room for any one in the inn to-night except our 
own friends, remember that, you! Remember everything and 
forget nothing; keep sober and have a smile on your face; run 
about all day and stand by all night; be the pot-boy, waiter, boots, 
porter, as the occasion arises; be the odd man and look the part 
as well; and do it all for next to nothing! It’s enough,” said the 
melancholy man, suddenly transferring the gaze of one eye from 
the distance and fixing John Henry with a wild and savage glare, 
“it’s enough to force a man into matrimony instead of earning an 
honest living!” 

As the melancholy man said this he clenched his right hand and, 
describing a half-circle in the air, brought it down with a crash 
on the rail of the stairs so that Little David jumped and screamed. 
John Henry, who had been sympathetically attentive, became imme¬ 
diately indignant. 

“No necessity to make a noise and frighten people,” he said 
fiercely. “Can you not see that the boy is scared out of his wits! 
We shall go away, Little David, and find an inn where the people 
are quiet.” 

“This is the only inn in the place,” said the odd man, “and, 
as I’ve said before, all the rooms are booked. Go if you like, but 
I advise you to stay where you are. I’m an honest man, but I’m 
poor. The rooms are booked, but it is myself that will help the 
people up, and lock them in till such time as the house is quiet. 
They will all want to spend the night here and go home sober 
in the morning, and there is not enough room for the half of 
them.” 

“You mean?” said John Henry interrogatively, and his hand 
disappeared into his pocket. 

The odd man smiled, pocketed a coin, and recalling his other 
eye from the distance, applied it to a point reasonably near to 


THE BLACK BULL 


19 


Little David—say about a couple of yards away. His expression 
altered and he bent forward confidentially. 

“You can have a couple of rooms, or one room, or six rooms, 
Just as you like. They”—He jerked his head in the direction of 
the closed door—“will know nothing about it, for you can lock 
the door. They will think it is one of themselves inside. You 
can have breakfast, pay your bill, and clear off before the boss 
wakens in the morning. I’ll see to that. You can trust me.” 

John Henry’s hand again disappeared into his pocket. 

“You can trust me—absolutely,” said the odd man, and he 
turned to ascend the stairs. 

“We want two rooms,” said John Henry, preparing to follow, 
“side by side. Small rooms, you understand, that will not cost 
a fortune.” 

Little David paused on the first step, relinquished his hold of 
John Henry’s coat, and became a picture of fear and distress. 

“I’m frightened,” he said, “I could not spend the night alone 
in a room here, with people coming to the door. I should go mad!” 

“We want one double-bedded room,” corrected John Henry. 
“One with a fire in it,” he added, as Little David shuddered, “and 
we want something to eat.” 

Little David came slowly up the stairs, holding his coat closely 
around him, apparently mortally suspicious of everything, and 
ready to start in terror on the slightest provocation. The odd 
man ushered them into a long, narrow room lit by a gas-jet over 
the fireplace, where two narrow single beds stood side by side in 
the midst of an arid waste of nondescript carpet. He drew a couple 
of chairs up to the hearth and proceeded to light the fire. John 
Henry divested himself of his hat and coat, placed a table beside 
the chairs, and telling the odd man to go in search of food, went 
down on his knees in an attempt to coax the fire to bum brightly. 
Little David remained at the other end of the room by the door, 
in a forlorn and huddled attitude; and he watched John Henry, 
almost it seemed, with dread. 


20 


LITTLE DAVID 


“It will bum,” said John Henry, and he rose from his knees. 
Now, John Henry had been exercising his lungs after the fashion 
of a bellows, and, no doubt, the smoke had irritated his throat. 
This is a likely, and indeed the only sensible explanation for the 
fact that, the moment he turned from the fire and faced the room, 
he commenced to cough with violence. He went on coughing, too, 
for a considerable time, and the sound seemed to affect Little 
David, for his figure grew tense and rather like a runner who 
is waiting for the signal to start on a race. It was quite an odd 
sight. 

Picture to yourself the long, dismal room, with its drab and 
sombre fittings, lit only by the single, wavering gas-jet; the newly- 
lighted fire, hissing and smoking in the grate; John Henry, on 
the hearth, contorting his face into grimaces as he coughed and 
spluttered; and at the far end of the room the small, tense figure 
of Little David, watching him with suspicion from within the 
shelter of the huge cap and coat; and think of a raucous din of 
talk and laughter, mingled with cheers, and rappings, and dmnken 
exclamations, ascending from below and offending the quiet of 
the night! 

“Come and sit down, Little David,” said John Henry when he 
had conquered his cough. “Take off your coat and cap and warm 
yourself by the fire. You must be cold,” and he went towards 
the boy on an impulse born of compassion at the sight of his 
pathetic appearance. 

Little David watched his approach, motionless and in silence, 
but when John Henry stretched out a hand to divest him of his 
coat, he shrank back and cowered against the wall. 

“Leave me alone!” he said with extraordinary passion. “If 
you touch me, I shall bite your arm!” 

John Henry’s arm fell to his side. He experienced the sensa¬ 
tion of one who has been unexpectedly struck full in the face, and 
he was hurt, but he merely said: 

“Very good, Little David, I shall not touch you. You do just 


THE BLACK BULL 


21 


as you please. I think you should sit down and warm yourself. 
I shall go and try to hurry up the supper.” 

“I refuse to eat anything,” said Little David defiantly. 

John Henry left the room without a word. He was hurt to the 
quick, not so much by the words of the boy, which, he judged, 
arose from fear, but by the fact that the boy was so obviously 
afraid of him. This, John Henry felt, was scarcely justified. 
He went down the stairs with a rising sense of indignation and 
it occurred to him that, as he knew nothing about the boy except 
that he had been ill-treated, there might be some reason for the 
ill-treatment. By the time he had found the odd man, however, 
his irritation had vanished, and he added a glass of whisky to the 
laden tray with the idea that the spirits might make the lad 
drowsy and inclined to sleep. Having given the odd man instruc¬ 
tions to waken them in good time in the morning, he ascended the 
stairs, carrying the tray, and followed by a string of pungent 
remarks on the subject of the Tipping Horley Minstrels. 

John Henry was half way up the stairs when the odd man 
stopped abruptly in the middle of a sentence, struck apparently by 
some idea which startled, interested, and finally amused him, so 
that he slapped his leg and laughed with genuine mirth. John 
Henry was sufficiently astonished to pause, look down, and inquire 
the cause of this. The odd man looked up. In fact he stepped 
out into the hall and stgred up at John Henry with evident 
curiosity. 

“It’s nothing,” said the odd man, after a moment. “I thought 
it was, but I can see that it is not. It’s funny, yet it’s not funny 
at all—but it does make me wish to strangle these noisy, drunken 
fools. I wish you good-night, sir,” and he refused to utter a word 
of explanation. 

John Henry went on, mystified, with the thought in his mind 
that the odd man, seen from above, seemed different. He did. 
Seen from below, at that moment, he also seemed different, but 
of this John Henry did not think. What he did think was that, 


j 


22 


LITTLE DAVID 


perhaps, we, all of us, look different seen from above. The thought 
pleased him and he felt convinced that it must be true, for the 
odd man seemed to be vastly improved. There was something in 
his face which John Henry liked, something which had escaped 
his notice down below. John Henry decided that it must be the 
same with everybody, and the thought cheered him, for he had 
a habit of studying faces, and very often the scrutiny left him far 
from happy. I, for one, believe that his decision was correct. I 
cannot, no, I cannot, think otherwise. It must be so, even with 
the Dainty Brute, and he, as you will learn later on, deserved his 
name. 


CHAPTER III 


THE BLACK BULL AT TIPPING HORLEY 

(continued) 

John Henry entered the bedroom; placed the tray on the table 
by the fire; returned to shut the door which he locked; and, sitting 
down in one chair, set himself to arrange the supper with assiduity. 
Little David sat, bent over the fire, on the extreme edge of the 
other chair. He still wore both his coat and cap. The former 
was wrapped round him more completely than it had been before, 
while the latter was pulled so low over his face that little of it 
could be seen except the point of his nose and chin. He had been 
warming his hands at the fire when John Henry entered, but 
when John Henry sat down opposite to him his hands clutched 
the front of his coat, and he seemed to regard him with a deep 
distrust. 

“Eggs, boiled bacon, bread, butter, jam, and coffee,” said John 
Henry, paying no attention to this. “What will you start on, 
Little David? I am very hungry myself, so you must wire in at 
once. I rather imagine that I had no lunch.” 

Little David made no reply, and he kept his eyes fixed on 
John Henry’s face as if seeking to read his thoughts, or watching 
for some expected and unpleasant development. 

“Coffee!” said John Henry persuasively. He held out a cup, 
looked directly at the point of Little David’s nose, and smiled. “It 
smells good,” he added, and this was a fact. The coffee did 
smell good. 

Little David’s hand went out. He took the cup mechanically, 
placed it untasted on his knee, and continued to watch John 

23 


24 


LITTLE DAVID 


Henry’s face. John Henry transferred some boiled bacon to a 
plate, chipped the top off an egg, buttered a couple of slices 
of bread, set them at one end of the table, and shifted the table 
itself within easy reach of Little David’s hand. Then he sat 
back in his chair. 

“I’m hungry,” he said, “but I cannot start eating till you have 
commenced. You must be hungry for you look famished. If 
there is anything else you fancy, I shall go and forage for it!” 

Now it may have been due to the fact that Little David was 
starving; or it may have been that the aromatic fumes of the 
coffee, rising up under his nose and gathering in a cloud of steam 
beneath the huge cap, obscured his vision; or it may have been 
that he was satisfied with his scrutiny of John Henry’s face. It 
is quite impossible to tell. The fact remains that, quite without 
any obvious reason, he suddenly seemed to lose sight of John 
Henry altogether, and applying himself to the food before him, 
ate, and ate, as if he had not had a meal for days. John Henry 
sat still, and watched, and smiled, and replenished Little David’s 
cup; and it was not until the boy desisted with a sigh of content¬ 
ment, that he perceived there was little or nothing left for himself. 

“Splendid!” said John Henry. “If you drink this little drop 
of whisky and go to bed, Little David, you will sleep like a top. 
To-morrow morning you will be as strong as a pony, and then you 
can tell me what you want to do.” 

Little David’s fears, and suspicions, and his distrust for John 
Henry, returned at once as if by magic. His figure stiffened— 
he had leant back comfortably in his chair—and shrunk within 
his clothes. He shivered, drew his coat tightly around him, and 
cast a glance in the direction of the door. John Henry perceived 
all this, but he paid no attention. He poured away half the 
whisky, added a little water, and held out the glass. 

“It will taste nasty,” he said, “but it will make you sleep.” 

Little David, with a sudden motion, snatched the glass from 
his hand and threw the contents into the fire. John Henry could 


THE BLACK BULL 


25 


not ignore this. He was hurt, too, and a trifle annoyed. He was 
hungry, also, for he had forgotten about lunch, and his appetite, 
being seldom fully satisfied, was always good. 

“I have no wish,” he said, “to force anything on you against 
your will. It was merely suggested for your own good. I think 
you should go to bed, but in that also you must please yourself. 
You seem to be suspicious of me without cause. I have no motive 
except to benefit you. You did not distrust me in the street and 
on the way down here, why are you doing so now?” 

Little David shivered, but he made no reply. 

John Henry rose, shifted back the table, crossed to the bed, 
and returned with the parcel containing the pyjamas. This he 
opened, spreading the garments out before the fire, and as he did 
so, he grew very red in the face. The one pair was small and 
struck John Henry as being quite appropriate for Little David in 
spite of sundry frills and a curious formation at the termination 
of the legs. The other pair was large and may have struck 
Little David as appropriate for John Henry, but he did not 
think so—in fact, he looked at them with great disfavour. 

“Positively immoral!” said John Henry in an undertone of 
vexation. “I shall hate wearing these things, but it cannot be 
helped.” 

This remark seemed, in some strange fashion, to ease while it 
did not dispel Little David’s attitude of suspicion. He gave vent 
to a gasping sound which caused John Henry to look at him 
with curiosity, whereupon Little David immediately commenced to 
quiver. The sight made John Henry forget his vexation. 

“You poor, little, scared creature,” he said. “You have nothing 
to fear from me. Whatever have you done, or what has been done 
to you, to make you so pitiably nervous? You are like a frightened 
bird,” and he stretched out a hand to touch the boy reassuringly. 

“Leave me alone!” said Little David with passion, and he 
retreated to the extreme edge of his chair. “I shall tell you— 
nothing!” 


26 


LITTLE DAVID 


John Henry sighed and sought consolation in tobacco. He lit a 
pipe and sat smoking, staring at the fire, and waiting for Little 
David either to go to bed, or to give some indication of his wishes 
in the matter; but Little David sat still, perched on the edge of his 
chair, and every time John Henry moved, he gasped and glanced 
at him with apprehension. The situation puzzled John Henry till, 
with the memory of an incident in his own past life, a solution 
suddenly flashed on his mind. When he had been very young 
and very poor, John Henry had shared a room with a man much 
older than himself. He had been an extremely sensitive youth 
and his undergarments had been—they were still—exceedingly 
unsound. He had never shared a room with any one in his life, 
and, till he grew accustomed to it, had gone through an exquisite 
torture under the scrutiny of the elder man’s eyes. It occurred 
to John Henry that the same might be the case with Little 
David. 

“I am going to bed,” he said, and he lifted the offending 
pyjamas, “but first of all I must have a bath. I shall be some 
little time, but you will be quite safe by yourself.” 

As John Henry said this, he moved towards the door, and as 
he opened the door, a babel of sound arose from below. It was 
evident that the melancholy odd man was about to assist one, 
or more, gentlemen to a much required rest. Little David sprang 
to his feet in terror. 

“You must not go away,” he said. “They might come in here!” 

“You can lock the door,” said John Henry coldly, “and keep 
it locked till I come back.” 

Little David seemed reassured by this, but in a moment he was 
lost again in a fresh terror. 

“That would never do,” he said, “because—” and he paused, 
gazing at John Henry with dread. 

“Yes!” said John Henry, still very coldly. 

“Because they might knock and I might open the door, thinking 
it was you,” said Little David. 


THE BLACK BULL 


27 


John Henry regarded the boy sharply. Then he removed the 
key from the lock. 

“Very good,” he said, “I shall lock the door on the outside 
and then no one can get in but myself,” and he suited the action 
to the word. 

“Of all the absurd figures!” he muttered, ten minutes later, as 
he looked with horror at his reflection in the glass. “If I should 
meet anyone in the passage! These frills round my ankles!” 

His apprehensions were in some measure justified. He was an 
absurd figure, and he looked decidedly funny in the pyjamas 
intended for a stout and elderly matron of ample development. 
Outside the locked door, he sighed with relief, and then the thought 
that Little David would view the absurdity reduced him to a 
jelly. Blushing hotly, but carrying himself with an odd, and 
in the circumstances ludicrous dignity, he unlocked the door and 
entered the room. On the threshold he halted in utter amazement, 
and all thought of his appearance fled in a burst of righteous 
indignation. The aspect of the room had altered completely. 
There was no fear that Little David might laugh at him, for Little 
David had, to all intents and purposes, disappeared from sight. 

A sense of self-preservation impelled John Henry to close and 
lock the door. Having done this, he remained still, grasping his 
discarded clothes in both arms, and viewed his surroundings. 
The two beds in the middle of the floor had parted company. The 
one stood at the far end by the fire and directly beneath the 
window. The other John Henry could have touched by stretching 
out his hand. It was close up to the door. There was a chair 
between it and the wall, and on the chair were Little David’s 
coat and cap and, presumably, his other clothes as well, but they 
were not visible. John Henry could not help thinking that the 
boy must have been wearing very little under his coat. The pile 
on the chair was so exceedingly small. In the bed was Little 
David himself, buried in the bed-clothes so completely that nothing 
but a tuft of dark hair could be seen. 


28 


LITTLE DAVID 


The meaning of the arrangement was not lost on John Henry, 
and it was this which roused his indignation. The occupier of 
the bed by the door could watch the bed by the window without 
being seen in the darkness, while the head of the bed by the 
window would be clearly illuminated by the lamp in the street 
outside. The occupier of the bed by the door could nip out, and 
be away out of the door and down the passage, in a second, if 
so minded. The angle of the bed in relation to the door made 
this very apparent. 

John Henry, having absorbed all these points, marched across 
the room with austere dignity and missed the sight of his reflec¬ 
tion in the glass; a reflection that could have made his hair rise 
on end. He was indignant and felt that he did not deserve such 
treatment at the hands of the boy he had befriended. He piled 
his clothes on a chair, reflecting that, as the boy had told him 
nothing, he might be implicating himself in a matter from the 
consequences of which it might be difficult to escape. He might, 
for example, be an accessory to a crime. The thought deterred him 
from extinguishing the light. He stood before the fire, gazing 
at the bed where Little David lay concealed, uncertain what to 
do. The entire business seemed odd and suspicious, now that 
he came to think about it. What, for example, had Little David 
done to make the Dainty Brute wish to detain him; why had 
he chosen Tipping Horley as a place of refuge; what was the 
object of his sudden distrust of John Henry; and why, if he 
were innocent, had he taken such elaborate precautions for escape ? 
John Henry, thinking of all these things, commenced to view him¬ 
self in the light of a fool. He was poor, practically penniless, 
and this little jaunt would cost him a pretty sum. There was 
another point on which the mind of John Henry dwelt, for a 
fraction of a second, but he dismissed it as caused by the wearing 
of the absurd pyjamas. He found it hard to keep his thoughts 
strictly decent and moral in that fantastic garb. It was strange, 
but it was the case. 


THE BLACK BULL 


29 


He decided to interrogate Little David, and settle the matter 
once and for all; and he commenced to walk down the room with 
that intention. He walked slowly and softly, for it was in his 
mind that, if the boy were asleep, it would be a shame to disturb 
him. His recollections of the white, scared face were too vivid to 
allow of any wish to do that. In the middle of the room he halted, 
and then went on swiftly. He had distinctly seen the small form 
of the boy, outlined under the clothes, quiver and become strained 
and tense; and he had heard his breath catch in a sob of fear. 
The two, taken together, swept away all John Henry’s doubts, 
and indignations, and imaginings. He reached the side of 
the bed and, bending down, touched the boy gently on the 
shoulder. 

“Is there anything I can do for you—little brother?” he asked, 
and the tone of his voice was far from harsh. 

Little David seemed to shrivel under his touch. The tuft of 
hair receded under the clothes, but his voice was neither muffled 
nor uncertain. 

“Put out the light and leave me alone!” said Little David. 

John Henry started back, and, indeed, there was some reason 
in this, for Little David spat out the words rather than spoke them. 
John Henry was human. He returned to the fire, walking rapidly, 
extinguished the light, and climbed into bed obsessed with a 
sensation of utter indignation. As a matter of interest it may 
be noted that there were only two points which roused his wrath. 
The one was when his feelings were hurt either by the sight of 
some one in unnecessary suffering, or by an uncalled for trampling 
on his own generous impulses. The other was when anything 
foolishly disparaging was said about his work. On all other 
points of annoyance John Henry remained calm, and seemingly 
unmoved. He had sufficient sense to know that they did not 
matter. On the present occasion he was thoroughly indignant 
because he was hurt to the quick. 

It was very quiet in the long, dark room after John Henry had 


30 


LITTLE DAVID 


settled himself in bed; so quiet that he could hear the quick, uneven 
breathing of the boy at the other end of the room. The sound 
would have affected John Henry if he had not been so indignant. 
As it was he steeled his heart and refused to listen. The revellers, 
down below, were quiet. Possibly they were listening to an ora¬ 
tion, or else the Flute had recommenced, his doleful tune. In any 
case the walls must be thick, John Henry reflected, and the 
thought filled him with thankfulness. He attempted to go to 
sleep, but he could not. The light from the lamp outside fell 
across his pillow. He was distressingly awake, and the ridiculous 
pyjamas annoyed him, causing his thoughts to stray into strange 
and unseemly channels. That pyjamas should have such an 
effect on his mind worried John Henry. He lay on one side with 
annoyance written plainly on his face. The light, which was 
strong, showed this; and Little David, who was watching, saw 
it distinctly. 

A low, stifled sound broke the stillness. John Henry knew what 
it was at once, but he paid no attention. Little David was weep¬ 
ing, sobbing into his pillow. John Henry, in spite of himself, 
grew uneasy. Little David went on, sobbing and sniffing, and 
doing it all in a subdued and hopeless fashion. John Henry 
steeled his heart, turned on his back, and lay staring up at the 
ceiling. Presently the sobbing ceased, but a fresh sound arose. 
Little David had moved, indeed John Henry was of the opinion 
that he had arisen from bed and stood on the floor, but he gave 
the matter no consideration. There was a rustling, the sound of 
light footfalls, and then a slender, white-clad form bent over John 
Henry, two hands rested on the edge of his bed, and a pair of 
soft, quivering lips brushed across his cheek. 

“Pm sorry,” said Little David in a quivering voice, and he fled 
precipitately back to bed. 

John Henry’s indignation wavered, would, indeed, have entirely 
disappeared if it had not been for the effect of the objectionable 
pyjamas, which, in some strange fashion, had increased. He 


THE BLACK BULL 


31 


commenced to be angry with himself, and so his voice was short 
and cutting. 

“That is all right,” he said. “There is no necessity to worry 
about me.” 

There was a silence during which John Henry continued to 
glare angrily at the ceiling, and then Little David made a statement. 

“I was crying because you have been so kind to me, and I was 
so unkind to you,” he said in a small voice. 

John Henry moved restlessly and became increasingly angry— 
with himself. 

“Don’t bother to think about it,” he said. “Try and go to sleep.” 

There was a long period of silence during which John Henry 
got rid of the thoughts stirred by the pyjamas. He had turned on 
his side, preparatory to making a valiant effort to sleep, when a 
sudden and raucous din of shouting and stamping arose from 
below. Some of the Tipping Horley Minstrels were going home, 
and their condition being jovial, the noise was great. Little 
David sat up in bed with a shriek. 

“What was that?” he gasped. “I am afraid!” and this he 
seemed to be, for his voice shook in a surprising fashion. 

“Nothing,” said John Henry. “They are going home. That 
is all.” 

Little David relapsed, but he did not remain still. John Henry 
could hear him turning, and tossing, and starting at imaginary 
noises. A second and prolonged outburst came from below and, 
although Little David did not move, John Henry heard him stifle 
his startled shriek in a gasp, and his bed creaked in a distressing 
fashion. The sound of voices, talking in loud, indistinct tones, 
became audible; then heavy, uncertain footsteps came up the stairs; 
and there seemed to be something in the nature of a struggle 
going on in the passage. John Henry imagined that the odd man 
was assisting some one to bed, and he was correct. What Little 
David thought is hard to tell, but he seemed to be scared almost 


32 


LITTLE DAVID 


out of his wits. John Henry, more at ease with himself, spoke 
to him reassuringly. 

“Pay no attention,” he said. “They have no wish to disturb 
us. They are merely merry, and possibly not quite sober.” 

“They frighten me,” said Little David, “because I imagine I 
am back in that horrible place. I think that they are coming for 
me, and then I am terrified. I am so tired; but when I sleep, I 
dream, and then the noise makes me think that my dreams are 
true.” 

“Poor child!” said John Henry, but his voice was still a trifle 
harsh owing to the objectionable pyjamas. 

Little David was silent, for a few moments, then he spoke in 
a very small voice. 

“May I—may I move my bed closer to you?” he asked humbly. 

“You may,” said John Henry. “Shall I help you?” 

“Oh no!” said Little David, with a sudden note of panic in 
his voice. “I can do so by myself as I did before.” 

“The boy is one quivering mass of nerves,” thought John Henry. 
“He is afraid of me the moment I approach him,” but he said 
nothing. He strained his eyes in the darkness, however, and 
watched the small white figure struggling with the bed. Little 
David edged it across the floor comerwise, lifting one end and 
carrying it a short distance, and then doing the same to the other 
end. In this fashion he approached John Henry, making surpris¬ 
ingly little noise. As he drew nearer John Henry thought, that 
if he himself presented a peculiar appearance, Little David was no 
better. His figure puzzled him. He had never seen, or imagined, 
anything quite like it; and John Henry’s imagination worked well. 
There were places where Little David almost appeared to bulge, 
and he filled the pyjamas in a surprising fashion considering the 
impression of slenderness created in his out-door clothes. Once, 
too, when his head was outlined against a patch of light on the 
wall, John Henry was filled with amazement. The boy’s head 
seemed abnormally large, like the head of a Roman Emperor on a 


THE BLACK BULL 


33 


coin, only the shape was weird and fantastic. It was almost as if 
his hair grew very thickly and stood on end in a solid mass by some 
means of its own. The thought occurred to John Henry that, 
perhaps, the boy was abnormal, and that would account for every¬ 
thing; but he abandoned the idea. It was dark and quite impos¬ 
sible to see with clarity. In daylight, without doubt, there would 
be nothing to wonder at. 

Little David, bringing the two beds parallel with a narrow, 
dividing lane, concluded his task and paused panting beside his 
own. He crept under the blankets and lay at the uttermost edge 
of his bed away from John Henry who, watching him, perceived 
with astonishment that he had removed all the blankets save one. 
They were draped over the top rail of the bed, and, consequently, 
it was impossible to distinguish much of Little David in the gloom 
except for an indistinct shadow on the white pillow. John Henry 
returned to a frowning contemplation of the ceiling, for his 
thoughts once more commenced to wander under the influence of 
the objectionable pyjamas. He had no desire to entertain these 
thoughts, but they came, seemingly, of their own accord. It was 
very absurd, and most annoying. 

The proximity to John Henry appeared to soothe Little David’s 
nerves for, presently, his breathing grew regular and he fell asleep. 
Once he was thoroughly asleep, however, his condition altered. 
He commenced to turn, and toss, and moan, and he muttered to 
himself in a shrill, sobbing whisper. He behaved like a spirit 
in torment, or a fly in the hands of a dissecting child; and this 
speedily deadened the effect of the pyjamas on John Henry’s mind, 
but, curiously enough, did not dispel it. That remained, like a 
shadow, hovering in the background; a shadow against which, 
John Henry felt, he must strive. At least he felt like that till 
he realized what a foolish thought it was to entertain under the 
circumstances. 

The Tipping Horley Minstrels, down below, broke out into loud, 
enthusiastic, but slightly discordant cheers. The odd man in the 


34 


LITTLE DAVID 


passage joined his voice to the chorus in shrill yaps—nothing 
else can describe them—of derision. The cheers gave place to a 
medley of sound that made John Henry start and sit up as if at 
the approach of a pestilence; and it was a full moment before 
he realized what it was. The Tipping Horley Minstrels were 
performing in concert. There was a resemblance to music, but it 
was faint—very faint indeed. John Henry looked towards Little 
David, expecting him to stir, but he did not. He had become 
still, and seemed to have fallen into a deep and peaceful sleep. 
This was far from the case, however, as subsequent events soon 
proved. 

There was a distressing increase in the volume of sound, caused, 
no doubt, by the opening of the door. John Henry imagined that 
he heard steps on the stairs, but he was not certain. It was 
difficult to be certain of anything through the groaning and sigh¬ 
ing of the instruments; but he did hear footsteps when the top 
of the stairs was reached. Whoever it was, was moderately sober, 
for he came along the passage with the determination of one who 
will brook of no denial. It passed through John Henry’s mind 
that he was coming to their door, and at that moment Little David 
spoke, or rather his voice came, dull and fear-laden from between 
trembling lips. 

“He is coming for me. He will not be content to beat me and 
go away!” The voice was low, like the moaning of a lost soul. 
“What shall I do! Oh, what shall I do!” 

The uncanny part of the matter was that Little David did not 
sit up as he spoke. He did not seem to move so much as a finger, 
but lay inert as if stupefied by terror. John Henry opened his 
mouth to say something comforting, but the words were never 
uttered. The footsteps ceased; the door-handle rattled; some one 
rapped repeatedly and demanded admission in an angry voice. 
Little David leapt clean out of bed and his shriek startled John 
Henry who was half expecting something of the kind. As for the 
gentleman at the door, he was so unnerved that he fled. John 


THE BLACK BULL 


35 


Henry could hear him crashing down the stairs, and the bang 
of the door as he returned to the room below. 

“Oh!” gasped Little David, and John Henry could hear him 
shaking. “I must have been dreaming. I heard the step and 
thought it was the Dainty Brute!” 

“You were asleep,” said John Henry in a soothing voice, “and 
you will catch cold if you stand there. I can hear the teeth 
chattering in your head.” 

Little David remained where he was for a moment, then he 
spoke in an exceedingly small voice. 

“May I shift my bed quite close to yours?” he asked. 

“You may,” said John Henry, and the dignity in his voice did 
not arise from indignation, as Little David imagined, but from the 
objectionable pyjamas, and of this Little David could not be 
expected to think. 

The boy effected the change and slipped back into bed. He 
did not lie at the extreme edge, as he had done before, but a 
distinct shade nearer to the middle of the bed. This, under ordi¬ 
nary circumstances, would have pleased John Henry and swept 
away remnants of indignation still remaining but, oddly enough, 
his mind rushed off at a tangent in a wild train of thought, and this 
he put down to the pyjamas. There could be no other reason. He 
was so annoyed with himself that he snorted. Little David, 
hearing the snort, imagined that he was snorting at him. 

The Tipping Horley Minstrels, having ceased their torturing 
exercises, John Henry again attempted to go to sleep, but his 
thoughts kept him awake. Little David drowsed for a few 
moments, woke up with a start and shuddered, drowsed again and 
moaned in his sleep, woke up again and chattered; and each time 
that he woke up he crept a shade nearer to John Henry. This, 
under ordinary circumstances, as has been stated before, John 
Henry would have been the first to perceive and appreciate. He did 
perceive it, but the effect on him was to make his thoughts wilder 
and more ungovernable. Under his breath John Henry cursed the 


36 


LITTLE DAVID 


pyjamas. The Tipping Horley Minstrels commenced to go home 
in ones and twos, at odd intervals, and with unexpected bursts of 
energy. They made a noise, too, every man of them—shouting, 
laughing—some of them even appeared to be on the verge of tears. 
At each interruption Little David shook and quivered, became 
distressingly awake and sought to fall asleep, only to start up 
again in terror. John Henry, still struggling with the absurd 
fancies which kept crowding into his mind, spoke to him. 

“You seem to be more afraid now than you were on our way to 
the train , 55 he said. 

Little David received this remark in silence, but presently, after 
an exceptionally loud outburst from below, he spoke. 

“I am so tired, and yet I cannot sleep. The moment I fall 
asleep, I dream, and I am terrified in my dreams. I am very 
miserable . 55 

“There is nothing to frighten you here , 55 said John Henry. “You 
must remember that you are safe, and that will help matters . 55 

Little David sniffed and again remained silent for a space, and 
when he did speak, his voice was so exceedingly small that it was 
scarcely a voice at all, and much more like a ghost of a voice. 

“I keep forgetting , 55 he said, “but- 55 

“Yes ! 55 said John Henry as Little David paused, and it is 
interesting to note that the objectionable pyjamas loomed larger in 
his mind, at this moment, than they had done before. 

“If I might hold your hand ! 55 said Little David, humbly, in a 
scarcely audible whisper. 

“Bless the boy ! 55 said John Henry. “Of course you may ! 55 He 
suited the action to the word, and half leaning out of bed, stretched 
a hand towards where he judged Little David lay. Two hot little 
paws immediately closed upon it, gripping it tightly as if holding 
on for dear life, and at the touch, the disturbing thoughts raised 
by the objectionable pyjamas, his indignation and suspicions, 
everything passed from John Henry’s mind except one thought, 
and John Henry did not look upon it as a thought. He knew 



THE BLACK BULL 


37 


that it was a fact. It was. Little David had taken a firm and 
lasting hold on his heart. 

Little David may, or may not, have had thoughts on the subject. 
He fell asleep very soon, slept peacefully, and did not slacken 
his hold of John Henry’s hand. When he thought that the boy 
was completely at rest, John Henry gently commenced to free 
himself, but immediately Little David grew restless and moaned, 
so he desisted. He made a second attempt later on, and then a 
third, and a fourth, but all with the same result; and when the 
Tipping Horley Minstrels became extra noisy, Little David did 
not waken, but he stirred and the grasp of his hands became 
tighter. John Henry made a last attempt, for he was in a stiff, 
uncomfortable attitude and his arm was growing strained, but 
it was no good. He resigned himself to a sleepless night. He did 
this very willing, if the truth be known, for the strain on his arm 
was more than compensated by the glow which he felt in another 
part of his anatomy. He was a very foolish man, was John Henry 
Millman. 

He lay awake and thought, and the tenor of his thoughts must 
have been pleasing, for he smiled in the darkness in a particularly 
engaging fashion. When the Tipping Horley Minstrels ended 
their discussion on art in a wild outburst of varied sounds, and the 
inn became alive with trampling feet, he had a brief respite, for 
Little David awoke and sat up, but he still held on to John 
Henry’s hand. The boy was half asleep, exceedingly scared, and 
not at all certain of where he was. John Henry spoke to him, 
patted him on the shoulder and insinuated him back into bed. He 
went, without much persuasion, and was soon fast asleep, still 
grasping John Henry’s hand. The change of position eased John 
Henry, but he was far from comfortable stretched between the 
two beds, also his arm ached consumedly. 

He did not think about that, however, but he did meditate on 
a surprising fact which he had discovered when Little David 
slipped back into bed. The boy was fully dressed beneath the 


38 


LITTLE DAVID 


pyjamas, and this accounted for the curious, bulging appearance. 
It was all very odd, and you might have thought so also, if you 
had been in John Henry’s place. He gave up thinking, after a 
time, for he grew very weary and sore, but he set his teeth and 
forced himself to remain still. Little David did not move, but 
slept on one side, heavily and peacefully; and, as the dawn com* 
menced to show under the window-blind, John Henry also fell 
asleep, but he knew all the time he was sleeping that there was 
something he must do, and that was to remain still. It was quite 
a quaint and pleasing sight for the sun to peep at the first thing 
in the morning. 


CHAPTER IV 


IN WHICH LITTLE DAVID DISAPPEARS 

John Henry commenced to dream that he was back at school, a 
child again, sitting humbly under the iron rule of “Skinny” Purvis. 
“Skinny”—she was an elderly female of hen-like appearance, 
devoid of flesh but full of brimestone—believed in educating a 
child to a strict moral standard. She believed also in hell as 
depicted by the pastor of a small Noncomformist chapel, and she 
had an intimate knowledge of the Spanish Inquisition. Amalga¬ 
mating the two in her mind, she arrived at something which struck 
terror into the hearts of her small pupils who were guilty of 
wrong-doing. John Henry, who had been apt to become lost 
in dreams and miss thereby many points of instruction, had fre¬ 
quently suffered untold tortures when “Skinny,” fixing her cold 
* prominent eyes on his own, explained what would happen to him 
if he chanced to die at the moment. The imagination of John 
Henry being acute, he had been wont to feel the heat of the flames, 
and sense the terrible agony of the rack in all his limbs. Children 
who had no imagination wept bitterly on these occasions, and 
forgot all about it the next moment. John Henry had never wept, 
and, likewise, he never forgot. He had suffered. 

He dreamt that he had committed some dire offence; that 
“Skinny” had locked him up in the empty schoolroom; and then 
he saw that the appearance of the schoolroom had commenced to 
alter. He wondered what was going to happen, and then he knew. 
He was in hell, stretched in agony on the rack which “Skinny” 
had so often described, and the flames were leaping up all around 
him. The heat was intense. His limbs were stiff and ached con- 

39 


40 


LITTLE DAVID 


sumedly. There was an added torment, too, which “Skinny” had 
never mentioned. He was not stretched out in the approved and 
Christian fashion of the monks, but in a horrible attitude of 
contortion. It was all very real and terrible. John Henry moaned 
in his sleep and moved feebly. His head hung down towards the 
flames at an appalling angle, and this worried him more than 
anything. He made several attempts to raise it, but they were 
fruitless. 

He was in great distress, and then an extraordinary thing 
happened. Some one lifted up his head, very gently, and rested 
it on a block of ice. John Henry knew that it was a block of 
ice because it was so cool, also, after his head had rested there 
for a second, it commenced to melt. He could feel the moisture 
on his cheek. Then the same person, in some miraculous fashion, 
released him from his attitude of contortion, and allowed him to 
lie on the rack in the normal fashion. It was a great improvement, 
and he was deeply thankful. He wondered who was befriending 
him, and then he knew. It was little Betsy Phillips. John 
Henry had once had a distinct penchant for little Betsy; and she 
had promised, on many occasions, to come to his aid if “Skinny” 
actually contrived to send him to everlasting torment. 

She was doing so now, and she was so sorry for him that she was 
sobbing. John Henry could not see her, but he could hear the 
sound of her sobs, muffled and indistinct, but quite unmistakable. 
There were even a couple of tears which fell on his cheek. John 
Henry thought what a terrible thing it would be if the block of ice 
under his head caused them to freeze there; and the same thought 
occurred to little Betsy. She bent over him and very softly 
brushed them away. John Henry wondered what it was that she 
brushed them away with, and then he knew. It was the little 
velvet pad that “Skinny” used for polishing her fingernails. John 
Henry felt quite happy and contented, in spite of his discomfort, 
as he thought of how much little Betsy was doing for him. 

Presently, however, it appeared that she could do no more, for 


LITTLE DAVID DISAPPEARS 


41 


John Henry knew that she was going to leave him. He was 
greatly disturbed at the thought, but very quickly he saw that she 
must go. It was a shame to keep Little Betsy in hell. John 
Henry made an attempt to tell her this, but his voice refused its 
office. He struggled to speak, and then he forgot what it was 
he wished to say. He tried hard to remember, but the flames, 
while they had not melted the ice, had commenced to make it hot, 
so that his mind grew confused. He forgot that he was in hell, 
and commenced to wonder where he was. He made a tremendous 
effort of memory and awoke; and when John Henry awoke he 
really did commence to wonder what had happened, and where he 
was. 

He was hot, intolerably hot. His head, in particular, was exceed¬ 
ingly warm. He was dazed, and dazzled, and found it difficult to 
see anything with clarity. He was in bed, that he knew; but the 
bed was quite out of the ordinary and seemed to be composed of 
bars of iron. He lay on his back, his limbs were stiff and ached, 
his right arm was numb—nerveless, and lay stretched out at an 
angle from the rest of his body. Memories of his dream remained 
in the mind of John Henry and tended to heighten his confusion. 
He stared up at the ceiling and wondered if he had been drinking 
over-night. He was very tired and drowsy, and the chances are 
that he would have fallen in a few moments into the depths of 
sleep, but a sudden and peculiar sound arrested his attention. He 
pondered profoundly, for a moment, and then he knew what it 
was. Some one, down below, was trying to play the flute. John 
Henry awoke completely, with a mind fully alive to his surround¬ 
ings, and the incidents of the previous night. 

The room was full of light, and it was the sun beating down 
on his head that had caused his dream. He lay where the two 
beds touched, and it was this which had made him think he rested 
on bars of iron. He was smothered under an excessive pile of 
blankets, and it was no wonder, with the added heat of the sun, 
that he felt hot. He recalled the discomfort of his position, 


42 


LITTLE DAVID 


while Little David slept, and he was not surprised that he felt 
Stiff, that his right arm was numb and almost useless. He turned 
his head to look at the boy, but the bed was empty. 

John Henry sat up. The action caused a thrill of pain to 
shoot from his wrist to his shoulder, but he paid no attention to 
that. He gazed all round the room and could see no trace of 
Little David anywhere. His coat and cap had gone from the 
chair by the door. The small pair of pyjamas had gone also, and, 
likewise, the paper in which both pairs had been wrapped up. 
John Henry sprang out of bed oppressed by a sensation of disaster. 
He opened the door and listened, but the inn was still and silent. 
There seemed to be no one stirring. He crossed to the window 
and pulled up the sash. The position of the sun forced John 
Henry to the belief that he had overslept himself. He had. It 
was almost ten o’clock. 

He wondered where Little David could be, and then his eyes 
fell on the bed. He recalled his dream, and he felt assured that 
the boy had fled. There was no pillow on the other bed. It lay, 
doubled up, where the two beds met, where, in fact, John Henry’s 
head had rested. It was the block of ice of his dream. He bent 
down and touching it found that it was damp. Little David 
must have wakened early, and wept. He recalled the fact that 
Betsy had been crying in his dream, and he thought of the two 
tears on his cheek. He thought, also, of the little velvet pad with 
which Betsy had brushed them away, and he remembered the touch 
of Little David’s lips on the previous night when he had said that 
he was sorry. John Henry ran his fingers through his hair. 

“All the time while I was sleeping like a sodden brute ,” 1 he 
groaned, “the poor little fellow must have been trying to make me 
comfortable. Now he has gone, and the Lord alone knows what 
will happen to him.” 

He stood, ^torn with vexation, and an alteration in the arrange¬ 
ment of his clothes attracted his attention. John Henry was very 
particular about his clothes, mainly, it is true, because he saw no 


LITTLE DAVID DISAPPEARS 


43 


chance of ever being able to buy a fresh supply. He invariably 
folded up each article as he took it off, and piled them one on 
top of the other. In the natural sequence of events the garments 
worn next his skin came uppermost. On the present occasion 
his jacket reposed on the top of the pile, and it was not folded 
neatly but lay anyhow as if dropped there in a hurry. There 
was something white on it, too, which puzzled him till he saw 
that it was a sheet of paper torn from his own pocket-book. John 
Henry reached the chair in a single bound. It was a note from 
Little David, and the writing was uncertain and wavered as if the 
hand of the writer had been shaking. There were a few spots on 
it, too, and these caused the paper to quiver in John Henry’s hand, 
for they were still a trifle damp. 

“Dear big-hearted Brother,” read John Henry. “I am going 
away before you waken because I must, and not because I am 
ungrateful or afraid of you. I would like to say what I think, but 
that is not possible. I shall never cease to be grateful for all you 
have done, and I shall never, never,” here there came the largest 
blot of all—“forget you. You are the”—here a couple of words 
were scored out heavily—“best friend I shall ever meet, and I am 
miserable at leaving you without a word. I have borrowed half- 
a-crown, and shall send it back whenever I can. I have your 
address on an old envelope I have taken. Please do not be angry 
with me, and try to think kindly of Little David who will be 
always thinking of you.” 

The letter proper ended abruptly at this point, but there was 
a postscript. 

“You must not worry about me. I shall be quite safe and 
happy. I asked you to go to Tipping Horley because my foster- 
mother, who is good and kind like yourself, lives in a small village 
near by. I could not have gone to her last night, for very few 
trains stop at the station. I have borrowed the half-crown for 
my ticket.” 

There was a second postscript, and in this one the writing was 


44 


LITTLE DAVID 


different. It was almost as if Little David had written very 
rapidly, and without pausing to think. 

‘T cannot bear the idea of any one else using them, so I am 
taking them with me.” 

“That,” said John Henry aloud, “refers to the pyjamas.” He 
pondered profoundly, for a moment, picturing the small white 
figure struggling with the bed, and he frowned. “No one else would 
have had a chance of using them,” he remarked with decision, 
and then he sighed. 

There was a knock, and the door opened. John Henry swung 
round eagerly, but it was only the melancholy odd man who 
entered. He held a can of hot water in one hand, a small round 
bottle in the other, and he seemed to be immersed in an even 
profounder gloom than on the previous night. He did not look 
at John Henry, but advanced to the wash-stand where he deposited 
the small round bottle, removed the ewer, and commenced to polish 
the basin with a cloth. His actions were slow and deliberate. 
He stood with his back to John Henry, and as he polished, he 
spoke. 

“Promises are promises. They should not be broken. A man’s 
word is a valuation of himself—unless he is in business when 
it has no meaning till it is written, signed, sealed, and legally 
attested—and if he breaks it, that is his own loss; but there is no 
harm in playing the flute. If I care to play the flute of a morning 
after having been up all night,” said the odd man fiercely, appar¬ 
ently addressing the wall, “who is going to stop me?” 

John Henry, having no ideas on the subject, remained silent. 

“I hate the instrument,” continued the odd man darkly. “As 
for the Flute himself, I tripped him up last night as he was 
stumbling out at the door, not once, or twice, but three times. I 
did that and felt better after it too. He must have dropped the 
thing, for it was lying on the door-step. I kept it, and very useful 
it has been as you must admit.” 

“J fail to see how it has been useful,” said John Henry, “and 


LITTLE DAVID DISAPPEARS 45 

why you should play an instrument you abhor, beats me altogether.” 

The matter of the flute failed to interest him. He wanted to 
ask the boots if he had seen anything of Little David, but he 
restrained himself, for there was no saying what the boy might 
have said, or done, on leaving the inn. He might have slipped 
away early and unperceived, or he might have been seen and given 
some valid reason for his solitary departure. John Henry com¬ 
menced to read the letter for the second time, and he entirely forgot 
about the odd man as he did so, and this, being quite characteristic 
of John Henry, was not to be wondered at. 

The odd man turned round and gazed at him with interest, and, 
it seemed, with some small pleasure to himself; but when John 
Henry glanced up from the letter, his one eye appeared to be fixed 
on the opposite end of the room, and his other eye, well, that one 
appeared to be looking out of the window. It was very odd and 
rather disconcerting. 

“Your little brother,” said the odd man, speaking slowly and 
with great distinctness, “told me you were tired and must not be 
disturbed. He made me promise not to waken you. That was 
where the flute came in useful. The moment I heard you moving 
about, I stopped playing, and here I am.” 

As he said this the odd man removed his jacket, and, rolling 
back the sleeves of his shirt, picked up the small round bottle; and 
as he did all this with an air of fierce determination, it was a trifle 
startling. 

“Excuse me,” said John Henry in some alarm, “what are you 
going to do with that bottle?” 

The odd man, making no reply, withdrew the cork, and, pouring 
a little of the contents in the palm of one hand, commenced to 
smear both hands with the stuff. He spoke, too, in a low, fierce 
undertone. 

“There are some people I would throttle off-hand and never 
regret it. There are others I would not lift a finger to help if 
they were gasping in agony; and the majority I would not look on 


46 


LITTLE DAVID 


as anything but so many things to be filled with beer, or so many 
boots and shoes to be cleaned. You are different. I’m going to rub 
your arm. It will hurt, but the stiffness will be gone in an hour. 
This stuff is good for both man and beast.” 

Having anointed both hands to his satisfaction, the odd man 
advanced on John Henry, and, without further preamble, took 
possession of his right arm. John Henry was too much astonished 
to protest. He submitted like a lamb, but, perhaps, the fact of his 
detecting in the face of the odd man that something which had 
pleased him on the previous night, had a little to do with this. 
As John Henry remained silent, it is hard to tell. 

“I knew your arm would be stiff,” said the odd man, “because 
your little brother told me you had strained it. He did not tell 
me how you managed to do so. Indeed he said little or nothing 
except that he had to go, and that you were weary and wanted to 
sleep. I asked no questions. I never do ask questions. If the 
answers are worth listening to, the questions do not require to be 
asked. That’s my experience. You can see them—the answers, 
I mean. Your little brother had been crying. He was not so scared 
as he was last night, but he was very miserable. He refused to 
eat anything, and he only asked one question.” 

“What was that?” inquired John Henry. 

“The shortest way to the station,” said the odd man. “Steady, 
sir, steady! You must let me finish with your arm. No good 
rushing about the country searching for somebody with a stiff arm 
as a handicap. That would be foolish.” 

“He is not my brother,” said John Henry after a moment. 
“Indeed I do not know who or what he is, except that he is in 
trouble. I must find out if he is safe or not. It worries me to 
think of the poor little creature wandering about like a lost soul.” 

“I can well believe it,” said the odd man, “and I knew he 
was not your brother the moment I set eyes on him. I thought 
at first—but it does not matter what I thought. I know now, and 
that’s better than thinking.” 


LITTLE DAVID DISAPPEARS 


47 


“What do you know?” asked John Henry. 

“That you are likely to give to others what I stopped searching 
for, years ago,” said the odd man gruffly. 

“What is that?” asked John Henry. 

“Happiness!” said the odd man shortly. 

John Henry was astounded, and quite at a loss to know what 
to say in reply to this utterance. The face of the odd man was 
wooden in expression, and this complicated the matter. He was 
pondering a suitable answer when a shrill, peevish voice com¬ 
menced to call for the odd man in tones of annoyance. That 
gentleman, giving no sign that he heard, went on with the task of 
rubbing John Henry’s arm with assiduity and deliberation. The 
voice, growing shriller and more peevish, also went on till John 
Henry could stand it no longer. 

“I think,” he said diffidently, “that some one is calling you!” 

“It’s a habit they have,” said the odd man. “Nothing on earth 
will stop them. They call for me all day long. If a child were 
bom in this inn, it would be shouting ‘Here you!’ in the inside 
of the first ten minutes. Pay no attention. She will soon grow 
weary.” 

The voice became a positive shriek of annoyance. 

“Really,” said John Henry, “you must go. Perhaps the lady is 
in trouble!” 

“She is,” said the odd man, and he smiled darkly. “That’s 
the missus, and the master’s mouth is hot and dry like a lime-kiln. 
The Tippling Howling Maniacs were too much for him last night, 
although he managed to creep up the stairs, giving me a fresh 
order on each step.” 

“Please go,” said John Henry. “My arm feels splendid. See, 
I can move it now without pain. I am exceedingly grateful and 
appreciate what you have done, but you must not neglect other 
people on my account. That would never do.” 

The odd man seemed about to make an angry reply, but he 
changed his mind. 


48 


LITTLE DAVID 


“All right,” he said, “I’ll go at once,” and he went, closing 
the door gently behind him. 

“There now,” thought John Henry with vexation, “I’ve offended 
him, and I had no wish to do that. I am a fool!” 

He turned towards the wash-stand, and the sight of his reflec¬ 
tion made him shudder. 

“Heavens!” said John Henry, blushing hotly. “What an 
appalling spectacle, like a figure from a madman’s pantomime!” 

He divested himself hurriedly of the objectionable pyjamas. 

“Heavens!” said John Henry for the second time, pausing with 
his shirt in one hand. “The odd man did not laugh at me. He 
did not even smile! He must think me an ungrateful beast!” 

The thought hurried his dressing, a matter of difficulty with 
an arm still a trifle stiff and painful, but, eventually, he succeeded, 
and, leaving the pyjamas in a heap on the floor, he passed down 
the stairs. The odd man, appearing suddenly from a dark lair 
which looked like an overgrown cupbroad, beckoned him into a 
small, cosy room where a fire was burning brightly, and a table 
stood set out in appetising fashion for one. 

“Everything in order,” said the odd man, looking anywhere but 
at John Henry. “Eggs, cold ham, and other trifles, all waiting to 
be eaten. Chair by the fire waiting to be sat on. Sit down, sir, 
and eat!” 

The odd man made a pretence of dusting the chair in question, 
and drew it back from the table inviting John Henry to be seated; 
but John Henry did not sit down. He crossed to the odd man and 
touched his arm, clasping it gently with his fingers. 

“You know,” he said, “I am quite unable to express my thanks 
for all your kindness. It is—” but what it was, I cannot tell, 
for at this point the odd man, who had commenced to show signs 
of impatience, cut him short. 

“It is not,” he said with emphasis. “It is nothing of the kind. 
I never try to please any one but myself. What have I brought 
you in here for? Why, just to spite the master and missus! This 


LITTLE DAVID DISAPPEARS 


49 


is their special room, and their special cups and saucers, and their 
special breakfast. They will not be down for a couple of hours, 
and they will be none the wiser. I shall listen to them boasting 
that no guest ever ate in this room, and that will please me, for I 
will know it is a lie l” 

John Henry remained silent and he watched the face of the odd 
man with attention. That gentleman, having freed himself from 
John Henry’s grasp, commenced to move, all the articles on the 
table as if their order and appearance disturbed him. He gained 
the opposite side of the room, during these manoeuvres, and he 
glanced at the door as if he wished to go away, but this he seemed 
unable to do. 

“You are a good fellow,” said John Henry slowly. “You—” 
He paused as the shrill voice of the landlady arose, calling in tones 
of anger. The odd man sighed, as a liberated person might sigh, 
with relief. He made for the door, disappeared like a streak of 
light, but his head reappeared, in a second, and there was the 
ghost of a grin on his face. 

“I never thought to welcome the sound of her voice,” he said. 
“I hope you enjoy your breakfast, sir I” 

John Henry did do so. In fact I have since heard him say 
that, of all the meals he ever sat down to, it was the most enjoyable. 
This was due—according to John Henry—to the sauce; but when 
I asked him what particular brand of sauce it was, he merely 
said—“A kind you cannot buy.” A most surprising and unsatis¬ 
factory statement, and one that must be false, for, if you cannot 
buy this particular brand of sauce, of what value can it possibly 
be—of none assuredly! 


CHAPTER V 


IN WHICH LITTLE DAVID DISAPPEARS 
(continued) 

John Henry spent half an hour searching for the odd man, but 
he failed to find him. He had disappeared. He was in the habit 
of disappearing, according to the stout lady who presided over the 
office. She went a step further than this and affirmed, in no uncer¬ 
tain voice, that the odd man had a special genius for never being 
about when he was wanted. Without entering into any discussion 
on the subject John Henry entrusted her with a message and a 
tip, and leaving the Black Bull, sought the station. There an 
exceedingly ancient and crusty-looking porter, who was engaged in 
piling a number of heavy packing-cases on the edge of the platform, 
paused in his task, glared balefully at him for a second, and then 
deliberately disregarded his existence. 

The packing-cases lay outside the station. John Henry, ponder¬ 
ing the difficulty of finding out where Little David had gone, 
watched the old man hoist them one by one on a truck, run the 
truck along, and then turn them out. The idea of asking the 
porter did not appeal to him because that gentleman’s appearance 
was not conducive to indiscriminate questioning. There was no 
one else about, however, so he approached the old man and 
coughed. It was not an easy subject to broach. Words came 
easily to John Henry, nevertheless, although they had no direct 
bearing on the subject in his mind. 

“My doctor,” he said with assurance, “makes me take a certain 
amount of exercise each day—to strengthen the muscles of my 

50 


LITTLE DAVID DISAPPEARS 


51 


back. If you would allow me to lift these cases on the truck, it 
would be a kind action on your part.” 

The remaining cases were the largest and heaviest, and John 
Henry had caught the sound of a laboured breathing distressing 
to hear. 

“I’m not an old man, and I’m strong—strong as a horse,” said 
the porter defiantly, but he gave place to John Henry and con¬ 
tented himself with running the truck along and tipping out the 
cases. They worked in silence till but one case remained, and then 
the porter spoke. 

“My wife’s sister is at the bottom of this,” he said, and he tapped 
the case with his hand, nodded, and scowled. 

John Henry was startled. The remark was unexpected, and the 
expression of the old man was quite in keeping with a literal 
translation of his words. 

“Bless my soul!” he said. “Whatever do you mean?” 

“Yes!” said the porter, scowling more than ever. “She and 
her brats are at the bottom of it. I would be living at ease on my 
savings if it were not for them. If a man dies and leaves his 
brats—one of them ailing too—and a wife with no money to 
support them, they should be allowed to starve. That’s what I say, 
and feel too!” 

John Henry looked attentively at the lined face before him, and 
he saw that the porter’s other hand rested on the small of his back. 

“I understand,” he said quietly. “You work off all your weari¬ 
ness and bitterness on the passengers, and then you go home 
with a smile and make it easy for them there. You need 
not trouble to contradict me, for I am not blind. I can see it 
on your face.” 

The porter, who had opened his mouth in indignant denial, 
was silent for a time, then he spoke, and his words astonished John 
Henry. 

“I knew who you were the moment I set eyes on you, but I did 
not believe that lying rascal, so I waited to see what you would do. 


52 


LITTLE DAVID 


The train is due in three minutes, so you had better buy a ticket. 
Crompton is your station—at least that is where the boy booked to, 
so I expect he went there.” 

“But—l” commenced John Henry in astonishment. 

“The odd man from the Black Bull,” said the porter, and pro¬ 
pelled John Henry towards the booking office. “A lying, lazy 
rascal if ever there was one, but he has spoken the truth for once. 
You must hurry up.” 

John Henry did hurry up. He found himself in the train, 
bound for Crompton^ in the inside of a few moments; and he leant 
out of the window with a view to thanking the porter, but it was 
that worthy who took the word. 

“Good luck, sir,” he said. “I hope you will be satisfied with 
what you find!” 

“I wonder what he meant by that,” muttered John Henry, but 
he did not wonder for long. He was filled with a pleasurable 
sense of having accomplished a difficult task; and, strangely 
enough, did not doubt that the location of Little David at Cromp¬ 
ton would prove easy. He sat and thought about the odd man, 
and the porter, and Little David; and the trend of his thoughts 
made him smile happily. John Henry was a very foolish man, and 
one who took pleasure out of trifles that other people either dis¬ 
regard or fail to see altogether. He was evolving a complicated 
scheme by the operation of which Little David, the odd man, and 
the porter, all benefited, when the train stopped at Crompton. He 
was still deep in the scheme as he strode down the one street of 
the village, and it was not till he had gained the outskirts of the 
little place that he came back to earth with a start, and a realization 
of the difficulties of his position. 

He had visualized, from Little David’s note, an ample, deep- 
bosomed, cheery-faced woman, and he had determined to find her. 
To do this had seemed an easy matter in the Black Bull, for he had 
decided that she would be well known; but, standing in Cromp¬ 
ton itself, the matter became complicated. 


LITTLE DAVID DISAPPEARS 


53 


“How can I,” muttered John Henry, “ask for such a woman 
who was foster-mother to a boy called Little David?” 

“You are a fool,” said John Henry to himself with a fitting 
solemnity. 

He paused by the side of the road, uncertain what to do next, 
and his eyes scanned a cottage which stood close by. It was small, 
fresh, and there was a garden before it full of flowers. John Henry 
walked on a few steps and stood by the gate staring up the path. 
The cottage was, he decided, a fitting spot for his motherly party 
to live in. He had scarcely come to this conclusion when a figure 
appeared in the open doorway, looked at him with disfavour, and 
came slowly down the path. 

It was a stout, red-cheeked, ample woman in the prime of life. 
The sleeves of her print dress were rolled up past the elbow. 
She exuded a faint and wholesome odour of soap, and looked, 
taken altogether, like an embodiment of the spirit of home bent on 
a wholesale extermination of dirt and disorder. John Henry 
experienced the sensations of an objectionable microbe as she came 
towards him with obvious hostility, a frown on her face, and her 
hands resting on her ample hips. 

“Might I ask what you are staring at my cottage for?” she 
inquired fiercely. 

John Henry grew red, and stammered, and was unable to speak. 

“I’m waiting!” advised the ample lady grimly. 

John Henry’s eyes travelled over her figure and rested on her 
face. He imagined that he saw the suspicion of a smile in the 
depths of her eyes, and this gave him courage. 

“I am looking for a kind, motherly woman who was foster- 
mother to a boy called Little David,” he said. “She lives in this 
village and I want to see her to make sure that the boy is safe and 
well. He is a slim little fellow with a big head, and very small feet 
and hands. A pretty little chap who has been in trouble and who 
wants to be looked after, and mothered, and sent back to his 
father. I do not know this woman’s name, or where her house is, 


54 


LITTLE DAVID 


and I would be very much obliged if you could help me to find 
her.” 

“You expect me to believe that you have come here to look for a 
woman whose name you do not know, and who may not even exist 1” 
scoffed the ample lady. 

“I do,” said John Henry. He hesitated, for a second, and then 
went on with confidence. “In fact I am inclined to think that 
you are the woman yourself. You must be. That is why you came 
out of the cottage to speak to me.” 

The ample lady snorted. 

“I came out because I am a decent woman and object to men 
loitering at my gate,” she said, but she did not deny John 
Henry’s suggestion, and the twinkle in her eyes became plainly 
evident. 

“Has Little David come to you?” asked John Henry eagerly. 
“He left a note behind to that effect, but he went away while I was 
asleep. If he is here, I want to see him.” 

“Little David did come to me,” said the ample lady shortly, 
“but you cannot see him, for I sent him packing at once. You 
will never see him again. There is no reason why you should.” 

“Where is he? What have you done with him?” demanded 
John Henry. “Tell me! I must know!” 

The ample lady crossed her arms with deliberation and leant 
on the gate. Her attitude was, like her expression, decidedly 
hostile. 

“What business is it of yours?” she asked. “What right have 
you to come here and demand to see the boy? He is nothing to 
you!” 

John Henry became vastly indignant. 

“Nothing to me!” he repeated. “Do you think I am a stone! 
I spent yesterday evening and all night in his company. He was 
scared, and helpless, and thoroughly unnerved. If you imagine 
that I can have a quivering little piece of humanity like that in 
my charge, trusting me absolutely, and then dismiss him from my 


LITTLE DAVID DISAPPEARS 


55 


mind you are greatly mistaken. I cannot rest till I know that he 
is safe!” 

The hostility of the ample lady lessened a trifle. 

“Then you can start resting at once,” she said, “for he is quite 
safe. I have sent him to his own people who live some miles from 
here. They happened to be in the village when he arrived. There 
is no reason why you should worry about him.” 

“Will they treat him well?” demanded John Henry. “He had 
done something foolish—run away perhaps, and was afraid to go 
home.” 

“They will treat him just as they did before,” said the ample 
lady, “for they will think that he has been with me all the time. 
You can take my word for it that he will not suffer.” 

John Henry was mollified. He recovered from his indignation 
and smiled at the ample lady, but her features remained impassive. 

“I am glad to hear that,” he said. “I could not imagine you 
allowing Little David to suffer. It would hurt you just as much 
as it would hurt him—more perhaps. You are his foster-mother?” 

“I am,” said the ample lady shortly, “and I am not. Depends 
on the way you look at it.” 

“I prefer to imagine that you are,” said John Henry. He 
produced his pocket-book, tore out a leaf, and wrote upon it. 
“This is my name and address,” he explained. “I would be very 
grateful if you would drop me a line just to say that the boy is 
all right, and has recovered from his fright. I shall not be able 
to keep from thinking about him, you know, and it would be 
kind on your part.” 

The ample lady accepted the paper and read the writing thereon, 
then she looked at John Henry with a growing curiosity which 
appeared to be mixed with some other emotion, such as mirth, or 
pity, or even contempt. She was still a trifle hostile but her 
hostility seemed to be receding into the background—as if it were 
no longer required. 

“You have asked me a lot of questions,” she said, “so now I am 


56 


LITTLE DAVID 


going to ask you a few. Have you no people that you can come 
dancing into the country at a moment’s notice? What about your 
wife and children?” 

“I have no wife,” said John Henry with dignity, “but if I had 
she would not, I hope, object to my befriending a boy like Little 
David.” 

“You think that, do you!” interrupted the ample lady. “Well, 
well, but go on!” 

“I have people, naturally,” continued John Henry, “but not in 
London. They live in the provinces. Of course there is Veronica 
—that reminds me, I wonder if Veronica remembered to feed her?” 

“Who is Veronica, and what has she to feed?” 

“Veronica is a friend of mine, a very good friend,” said John 
Henry. “She limps a trifle, has a habit of dropping everything, 
but she is very kind to me. She keeps my room clean and feeds 
Agnes when I forget. Agnes,” explained John Henry, hurriedly, 
as the mouth of the ample lady opened, “is my cat, and Veronica 
is Mrs. Baldwin’s—my landlady—servant. She was a foundling, 
poor soul, and they work her to death.” 

“You don’t happen to have a parrot, or a monkey, or a few 
tame mice?” asked the ample lady with sarcasm. 

“No,” said John Henry simply, “I have not, although I once had 
a dog. It was a stray, but it died.” 

The ample lady looked up the road, then down the road, then 
she looked back at the cottage, and last of all she looked at John 
Henry. It was almost as if she expected him to have vanished by 
the time she had completed her survey. Since he had not, she pros¬ 
ecuted her inquiry. 

“What are you?” she asked. “Have you no business to attend 
to—” She paused, stricken dumb by the expression of horror on 
John Henry’s face. 

“I have,” said John Henry. “I had forgotten all about it What 
a dreadful thing! I have an appointment at half past three this 
afternoon which I must keep. Whatever shall I do!” 


LITTLE DAVID DISAPPEARS 


57 


“Take a train and keep it,” advised the ample lady who was 
of a practical turn of mind. “There is one due about now—a fast 
train that will take you up to town in plenty of time, but if you 
miss it you will miss your appointment also. You had better hurry. 
You have no time to spare.” 

“I shall run,” said John Henry. “Please let me hear about 
Little David, and, the next time he comes your way, say that I 
shall never forget him. If I can ever do anything for him, I shall 
be only too pleased. I should like to see him again, but not if he 
does not want to see me,” and having said this, John Henry removed 
his hat, bowed, and commenced to run back towards the station. 

He had not taken a dozen steps, however, when the voice of the 
ample lady called him back. She had emerged from the gate and 
stood in the street, and her expression was curious. She appeared 
to be attempting to look severe, and at the same time to be doing 
her best to keep down a laugh. There was something else in her 
face, too, and this John Henry could not fathom, for it appeared 
to be composed of astonishment and pity. 

“You are very clever!” she said tentatively. “You guessed who 
I was the moment you saw me, and you took my description from 
the boy’s note. That was smart, very smart. You are very clever, 
are you not?” 

“I do not think so,” said John Henry, slightly taken aback. 

“Your young woman must have a terrible time,” pursued the 
ample lady. “You have only to look at her and then you know 
everything she has ever been, or done, or thought to do. Does she 
wear a mask when you go to see her?” 

“Really,” said John Henry, “I must go. I shall miss the train. 
I have no woman, young or otherwise, in my life, and why you 
should make such extraordinary statements I fail to fathom.” 

“One moment,” said the ample lady. “You are young and can 
run hard. Tell me this now—you are very clever, are you not? 
You never miss anything?” 

John Henry, thoroughly bewildered, made no response. He 


58 


LITTLE DAVID 


turned on his heel and fled down the road, and as he went the 
voice of the ample lady followed him, and her words sounded like 
an accusation—a triumphant accusation. 

“You are very clever, are you not?” she shouted. 

“I may be very clever,” thought John Henry as he entered the 
station, “but I shall feel remarkably foolish if I cannot get up to 
London in time.” 

He was saved from this, however, for the train deposited him in 
Paddington station as the clocks were striking two. 


CHAPTER VI 


THE THREE MIGHTY BEINGS OF MEAD HOUSE, SOHO 

It is with very mixed feelings that I commence this chapter. The 
task, let me say at once, is beyond my powers. To describe John 
Henry, or Little David, or indeed any other simple and ordinary 
creature is easy, but how to approach the subject of the Three 
Mighty Beings of Mead House, Soho, beats me altogether. To 
describe them as men, naturally, would not be difficult and this 
I shall do later on; but, alas, they are not men at this point in the 
tale, they are—I scarcely dare write the word—PUBLISHERS! 
Now when you know what they are you will appreciate my diffi¬ 
culty. A publisher is a wonderful thing. He is quite apart from 
anything human. He is difficult to imagine, and, frequently, 
exceedingly difficult to find or see. He is, in truth—but if you 
know nothing about them then I had better not tell you, for fear 
you might drop your occupation and spend the rest of your life in 
a vain search; and if you do, then there is no need for me to write 
a single word—no, not one. 

I can, however, describe the setting in which these mighty crea¬ 
tures sit; but, first of all, I must decribe how they come into the life 
of so ordinary a person as John Henry Millman. John Henry had 
committed a serious indiscretion. He had written a novel. Not 
that there is anything unusual or serious about that, but his sub¬ 
sequent actions altered the aspect of the matter. John Henry had 
written several novels previous to this, but he had treated them in 
the proper spirit. They had been destroyed, at once, and without 
compunction. This one, sad to relate, he had treated differently. 
He had found out that he could not destroy it, and the discovery 

59 


60 


LITTLE DAVID 


disturbed him because he did not know what to do with it. It 
was very annoying. 

He hid the manuscript away under a pile of odd papers and 
pretended that it was not there—but it was no good. The manu¬ 
script refused to be disregarded. Matters came to such a pitch that 
John Henry found he could not remain in the same room with 
the thing, and as he only had one room, this was exceedingly irk¬ 
some. He went out one afternoon, to escape from its baleful 
influence, and, driven to desperation, took a ticket for the entire 
journey of a bus, an unwise action that deprived him of supper. 
John Henry never had any money. 

Charing Cross Road was what is commonly known as “up”— 
that is to say it was occupied by a number of muscular gentlemen 
smoking pipes to the intense gratification of an immense and 
respectful crowd. The bus, with John Henry on the top, was 
diverted from its normal route. It dashed happily into Soho in the 
company of a number of other vehicles, and stopped, in a jam of 
traffic, directly before the front of Mead House. John Henry was 
on a level with the windows of a large, handsome room on the 
first floor, and he gazed inside without any definite object. 

The room was expensively furnished in a heavy, impressive 
fashion. There was a huge desk by the window, which appeared 
to be one desk in three, or three desks in one, for there was 
accommodation for three people to sit there. Three comfortable yet 
austere swivel chairs stood on three sides of the desk, one with 
its back to the window, and one at either end. There was only 
one other chair in the room, and it stood by itself, in the middle of 
the floor, placed so that any one seated there would face the huge 
desk, not directly, but at a sharp angle. This chair was very 
large, and very low, and it also appeared to be very comfortable; 
but there was something sinister about it which John Henry dis¬ 
liked. Looking at it his mind went back to “Skinny” Purvis and 
her tales about the thumbscrew and the rack; and he imagined 
a quivering victim seated there listening to the verdict of a stern 



THE THREE MIGHTY BEINGS 


61 


judge who sat in the middle chair, staring straight before him, 
and thus avoiding a direct scrutiny of the victim’s face. 

He thought of this so vividly that it grew unpleasant, and he 
transferred his gaze to the other objects in the room. There were 
several huge bookcases, a number of pictures on the walls, a collec¬ 
tion of chaste ornaments on the mantelshelf, and a large but 
restrained-looking fire burning in the open grate. John Henry 
was interested. The room affected him as a Royal Apartment might 
—with a sense of his own utter inadequacy. He wondered what 
manner of creature might work there, for there was no one to be 
seen, and at that moment a voice commenced to speak behind him, 
and he found out. 

“That is Canning and Canning, the publishers,” said the voice. 
“The richest firm in London.. There is a Canning left, but he 
keeps in the background. The business is ostensibly conducted 
by the two junior partners, Ralph Seymour and Sinclair Dodds.” 

“What do they publish?” inquired a second voice. 

“Anything that has a name attached to it,” said the first voice, 
“and little else. An unknown author might as well—” but what an 
unknown author might as well do, John Henry never found out, 
for the bus started to move at the moment, and the words were lost 
in the roaring of the traffic. 

John Henry left the bus in Shaftesbury Avenue, much to the 
astonishment of the conductor who knew that he had paid for the 
entire run, and it was not till the bus had moved on that he 
recalled this fact. He looked upon the matter in a philosophical 
light, however, for it was easier to walk home from Shaftesbury 
Avenue than from the far distant point to which the bus was 
bound. As he had no money, walking was a necessity. He had 
got off because he wished to see the speakers behind him. To 
have glanced over his shoulder would, no doubt, have been a 
simpler method of doing this; but that also did not occur to him 
till afterwards. There were quite a number of things of a like 
nature that did not occur to John Henry till long afterwards. 


62 


LITTLE DAVID 


He walked home and the exercise sharpened his appetite. He 
recalled the money spent on the bus with bitterness and realized 
that the loss lay at the door of his wretched manuscript. He 
reached his own room, tired and exasperated, and the influence 
of the thing prevented him from resting. The words of the man on 
the bus recurred to his mind. 

“An unknown author might as well-” 

“Tear up his manuscript as take it to them,” completed John 
Henry aloud. “Well, why not take it to them since I cannot bring 
myself to tear it up?” 

He hesitated and was lost. He seized the manuscript, tied it up, 
and leaving the house, walked rapidly from Paddington to Soho 
with the bundle under his arm. The entrance to Mead House 
startled and awed him. He crept up the stairs, purposely avoiding 
the lift, and insinuated himself through a door marked “Canning 
and Canning—General Offices.” There, a pert young woman, 
very smart and rather pretty, after disregarding him for about ten 
minutes, suddenly awoke to his presence and demanded his business. 
John Henry, who had commenced to evolve a theory based on the 
shape of her left ear—it was pretty, by the way—became vastly 
confused. 

“I have brought this,” he said, and he held out the bundle. 

The young woman retreated as if from a viper. 

“Why have you brought it here?” she demanded. 

John Henry, being unable to explain that he desired to get rid 
of the thing, became lost in a still deeper confusion. 

“Hurry up!” said the young woman with a toss of her head. 
“I am busy and have no time to waste.” 

“I have brought it from Paddington for Mr. Canning,” said 
John Henry, speaking at random, with the one thought of escape 
looming large in his mind. 

The attitude of the pert young thing altered immediately. She 
bcame docile and winning. She looked as if she would have liked 
to smile at John Henry, but would not dare to do so. John Henry, 



THE THREE MIGHTY BEINGS 


63 


astounded, wondered what he had said to work this miracle. She 
accepted the bundle and addressed him with respectful solicitude. 

“Very good, sir, that will be all right. Did you wish to see 
Mr. Sinclair or Mr. Dodds?” 

“Certainly not!” said John Henry in alarm, and he made for the 
door. 

“What is your name, sir?” inquired the no longer pert one. 

“John Henry Millman,” said John Henry, uttering his name 
with a sensation of relief. That he knew and was certain of. 

In the passage John Henry bumped into two tall, thin men. He 
stood on one side to let them pass and they favoured him with a 
searching scrutiny under which he wilted. It was Ralph Seymour 
and Sinclair Dodds, but of this John Henry did not think. He 
did not even think about them at all, which shows how easily the 
great things in life may be disregarded. Ralph Seymour and Sin¬ 
clair Dodds thought about him, however, but it was the action of 
the pert young thing in the office that brought this to pass. 

“A gentleman brought this parcel from Mr. Canning at Padding¬ 
ton,” she said, indicating John Henry’s manuscript. “He was in a 
hurry and left no other message. I expect Mr. Canning has been 
in town, but had not time to call himself.” 

“You had better look into this, Mr. Dodds,” said Ralph Sey¬ 
mour. “It must be something uncommon for Mr. Canning to 
trouble about it. He unwrapped the parcel and discovered John 
Henry’s name on the cover. “What was the name of the gentle¬ 
man who called?” 

The pert young thing repeated John Henry’s name, with a little 
information on his appearance, and added the fact that he had 
just left. 

“Undoubtedly the man we met in the passage,” said Ralph 
Seymour. “I thought there was something uncommon about him. 
Mr. Canning must know him personally! You must give this 
manuscript most careful and immediate consideration, Mr. Dodds.” 

“The moment I saw the man, I thought to myself—‘What have 


64 


LITTLE DAVID 


we here!’ ” said Sinclair Dodds in a species of muted ecstasy. “I 
shall go into this to-night. Tie it up, Miss Wrenlet; I shall take 
it home with me.” 

I wish to say at this point that there was something in John 
Henry’s book, something beyond the written words of the story, 
but neither Ralph Seymour nor Sinclair Dodds would have seen 
this if they had not thought that their much-feared and seldom- 
seen senior partner had previously made the discovery. John 
Henry never knew what he owed to the pert young thing in the 
office, and she never doubted that he came direct from Philip 
Canning who ruled her destiny, and who lived some thirty miles 
out of London from Paddington station. To the world that came 
into the offices of Canning and Canning, Philip Canning was 
unknown, for he was seldom there; but he ruled the place for 
all that. When he received a long letter from his two partners 
complimenting him on his “find” in the matter of John Henry 
Millman he was astonished; but being a wise man he enjoyed the 
credit and kept a still tongue in his head. He was sufficiently 
curious, however, to be present on the day when John Henry 
was invited to call at Mead House at half past three in the 
afternoon. 

From this you will gather that John Henry came to be mixed 
up with these wonderful creatures through pure chance and not by 
any action on their part, and so I feel easier in my mind. I know 
that you would never credit a bald statement that they had wished 
to have anything to do with him on his own account. That would 
be absurd and altogether unthinkable, and if you do not agree with 
me then you have failed to grasp their exceptional attributes—but 
as you read on you will understand. 

At five and twenty minutes past three on the momentous after¬ 
noon the three partners of Canning and Canning sat in majesty 
at their huge desk, each in his appointed place. Philip Canning 
sat with his back to the window, Ralph Seymour sat on his right 
hand, and facing him sat Sinclair Dodds. The two latter gentle- 


THE THREE MIGHTY BEINGS 


65 


men appeared to be immersed in piles of correspondence that 
seemed endless. They worked. Philip Canning sat back in his 
chair, with John Henry’s manuscript before him, and thought. An 
air of silent grandeur pervaded the room. You might think that 
it is impossible to conceive a more impressive spectacle—you are 
wrong. You do these mighty beings an injustice by so thinking— 
wait! 

Three telephones stood on the desk, one ready to the hand 
of each of the seated trio. A row of bell-pushes showed beside 
each instrument. Each of these bells when rung carried a different 
message to the outer office where their note was listened for with 
attention. The messages varied from—“Announce that the build¬ 
ing is on fire” to—“Announce that the Prime Minister has called 
for a friendly chat.” They were all “Announces” and they were 
exceedingly useful. Undesirable authors were got rid of by this 
means with ease and celerity. Desirable authors were chained to 
the firm in bonds of worshipping respect. High spirited authors 
were reduced to grovelling idiots—all kinds and conditions of 
authors were catered for with sense, kindly foresight, and discrim¬ 
ination. 

Three bell-pushes stood concealed under the desk, one ready to 
the right foot of each occupier of a chair. The messages they 
carried to the outer office were two in number. They were: one 
ring—“Call me on the telephone at once”; two rings—“Enter, 
apologise, and say that I am wanted outside on urgent business.” 
In the middle of the mantel-shelf stood a small bronze figure 
holding up a tiny lantern in which an electric bulb lay concealed. 
At twenty-eight minutes past three Philip Canning’s eyes became 
fixed on this figure. At twenty-eight and a half minutes past 
three the bulb glowed into a point of light. A change came over 
the entire aspect of the room. Before it had been impressive, now 
it was more than impressive. Words cannot convey it. It is 
impossible to describe. 

“He has arrived,” said Philip Canning, and he stiffened and 


66 


LITTLE DAVID 


appeared to stretch and grow taller in his chair. He was, at any 
time, exceedingly tall and exceedingly thin. 

“Has arrived,” repeated Ralph Seymour, abandoning his work, 
and he also grew taller. He was, at any time, very tall and very 
thin. 

“Arrived,” breathed Sinclair Dodds, doing likewise, and like¬ 
wise increasing in stature. He was, at any time, tall and thin. 

There was a ghastly silence during which the three figures 
became vested with a super-human dignity. The last lingering 
remnants of humanity could almost be seen dropping from them. 
The serene calm of their expressions was awe-inspiring. Twenty 
minutes passed, and then Philip Canning broke the silence. 

“The chair, has it been screwed to the floor?” 

“I have seen to it myself,” said Ralph Seymour. 

“Myself,” breathed Sinclair Dodds. 

“Please press your number six, Mr. Seymour!” 

“My number six,” said Ralph Seymour, suiting the action to the 
word. 

“Six,” breathed Sinclair Dodds. 

The message which this bell carried to the outer office was: 
“Announce the gentlemen—with respect.” 

John Henry entered the room, and with his entry I heave a 
sigh of relief, for he outlined the interview to me and I can follow 
his description. John Henry, as I have said, entered the room, 
and his nerves, already strained by waiting, became hopelessly 
disturbed at the sight of three excessively tall, thin figures, out¬ 
lined against the window, rising to immense heights, and swaying 
slightly towards him with hands resting on the desk. 

“Mr. John Henry Millman—welcome,” boomed the tallest, thin¬ 
nest, and middle figure. 

“Mr. Millman—welcome,” repeated the taller figure on one side. 

“Welcome,” echoed the tall figure on the other. 

John Henry bowed, wished he could do something with his 
hands, and experienced an overwhelming desire to flee 


THE THREE MIGHTY BEINGS 


67 


“Pray be seated,” boomed the tallest figure, indicating the one 
chair in the middle of the floor. 

“Be seated,” repeated the taller figure on one side. 

“Seated,” echoed the taller figure on the other. 

John Henry sat down, and the chair, which was large and 
comfortable, seemed to rise up and envelop him so that he felt as if 
it were sitting on him rather than he sitting in it. The angle at 
which the chair was set disturbed him horribly. He found that 
to face the three figures who still remained standing, it was neces¬ 
sary to contort himself into an impossible angle. If he did not 
do this he had to slew his head round—a disconcerting process. 
He attempted to move the chair, but in this he failed. 

“Aa-ha!” boomed the tallest figure, and sitting down, rested its 
elbows on the desk, the tips of its fingers one against the other, 
and its eyes gazed directly ahead, and not at John Henry. 

“Aa-ha!” repeated the taller figure on the one side, and sitting 
down rested its elbows on the desk, the tips of its fingers one 
against the other, and its eyes gazed directly ahead. 

“Aa-ha!” echoed the tall figure on the other, and did likewise. 

There was a period of silence and then the tallest figure hurled 
an accusation at John Henry. 

“This is your work, Mr. Millman!” 

John Henry, wishing that he could say otherwise, admitted that 
it was. 

“I have read it,” continued the tallest figure. “Mr. Seymour 
has read it. Mr. Dodds has read it. We have all read it!” 

He paused and John Henry just managed to stop himself from 
apologizing. 

“We have considered the matter and our minds are made up, but, 
first of all, we wish to emphasize a few points.” 

John Henry moved unhappily, but remained silent. 

“You are young!” 

“I shall do my best to rectify it—immediately,” said John Henry, 
with no thought of being rude but simply from nervous strain. 


68 


LITTLE DAVID 


There was a moment of terrible silence. Then the tallest figure 
spoke in an awful voice. 

“Mr. Seymour, have the goodness to carry on! Mr. Dodds, you 
will please help Mr. Seymour!” 

They carried on. According to John Henry they carried on for 
several hours, but this, I think, is a misstatement. What appears 
to be true is that from the first letter to the last word there was 
nothing right in poor John Henry’s book. The title was bad 
to commence with. The opening lines were heavy, the middle 
uninteresting, the end unconvincing. The characters who were 
not too young were too old. The men should have been women. 
It was all wrong. John Henry sunk lower and lower into an 
abyss of despair till he touched the very bottom, and when that 
occurred something happened to him, and he found his voice which 
had fled in the early part of the interview. 

“What you say is no doubt true,” he said. “I am sorry to have 
troubled you. It is as I have thought it out, and my characters 
have made it so. That cannot be helped. If you give it back to 
me, I shall take it away at once.” 

He spoke in all sincerity, and he commenced to rise from his 
chair. He commenced, I say, but he got no further for, happening 
to glance at the tallest figure, he perceived a dreadful alteration 
taking place in its face. The eyes continued to stare at a point 
away from John Henry, but the mouth had commenced to twist 
into a curious contortion. John Henry, glancing at the other two 
figures, perceived that their faces were likewise undergoing the 
same terrible change. When the change appeared to be complete 
the three heads turned in John Henry’s direction and the eyes 
looked at him. John Henry collapsed into his chair and shud¬ 
dered, and he might well do so. It was the first time that he had 
seen a publisher’s smile. 

You may think that there is nothing out of the common in that, 
but there is. A publisher’s smile is one of the extraordinary things 
on earth. It is quite inhuman. It either comes direct from an 


THE THREE MIGHTY BEINGS 


69 


expectation of a large circulation, or from a certainty of a favour¬ 
able agreement, or, possibly, from both. It was both in the case 
of John Henry and the sight was almost more than he could bear. 
He has since assured me that if it had lasted for an extra six 
seconds he would have fled. As it was, I saw him a week after¬ 
wards, and he was still in a state of prostration. 

This being the case I am unable to describe the rest of the 
interview with clarity. Apparently the tallest figure announced 
its intention of publishing John Henry’s book forthwith, and the 
other two figures joined in the chorus. Also, by some miraculous 
means, these wonderful creatures arrived at the conclusion before 
John Henry left the room, that all the objections to the book had 
been uttered by John Henry and not by themselves. Then John 
Henry promised to call on a certain date to sign an agreement; 
and the terms of this agreement had been explained to, and 
approved of, by him; and he knew nothing about them and thought 
less. Apparently all this happened, but John Henry’s description 
was so confused that I found it hard to follow. There was just 
one point on which he was quite clear. He was so unnerved by the 
Three Mighty Beings shaking him warmly by the hand that he 
left the office in a hurry, and he left his hat in the office. He 
walked all the way home—from necessity, and his hat had arrived 
there before him. It was the only hat he possessed, and it would 
have been more than unfortunate if he had lost it. 

There was another reason why John Henry did not wish to lose 
that hat. 

A collection of pawn-tickets reposed inside the lining. 

Now I do not wish to detract from the qualities of the Three 
Mighty Beings of Mead House, Soho. That would be a dastardly 
action. Still I must disclose a fact of some importance to John 
Henry. When he called to sign the contract for the publishing 
of his book, he was agreeably surprised to receive a—to him— 
substantial sum of money as an advance against royalties. He 
could not recall any mention of this in the previous interview, 


70 


LITTLE DAVID 


and, in truth, it had not been mentioned. I do not mean to suggest 
that the Three Mighty Beings had examined John Henry’s hat— 
such an action would be beneath their dignity. I prefer to think 
that their all-seeing eyes had penetrated through the felt. In 
any case I feel assured that the presence of the pawn-tickets was 
not unknown to them. 


CHAPTER VII 


IN WHICH LITTLE DAVID PEEPS OVER THE HORIZON 

I have a great regard for the red-cheeked, ample lady who lived 
in the little cottage on the outskirts of Crompton, and so—if you 
have no objection—we will return to where she was left, standing 
in the middle of the road, staring at John Henry Millman. She 
continued to stare for some little time after he had disappeared, 
and she appeared to be both amused and puzzled. She also 
appeared to be indignant, but not with John Henry. 

“Of all the queer things!” she remarked, as she entered her gate, 
but to what she referred it is impossible to tell, for she made no 
further statement, but left it at that. 

In her kitchen—it was small, and cheery, and clean as a new 
pin—seated before the fire with a high and becoming colour in her 
cheeks, a somewhat apprehensive expression in her eyes, and a 
much too large print dress wrapped round her slender form, was 
one Mabel Canning, foster-child to the ample lady, the darling of 
her heart, and, likewise, the daughter of Philip Canning, of Can¬ 
ning and Canning, of publishing and business fame. 

The ample lady—her name was Mrs. Bluebell, by the way, 
although Mabel Canning invariably referred to her as Fammy, a 
childish contraction of foster-mammy—paused on the threshold of 
the room, and, resting her hands on her hips, regarded her foster- 
child with severity and indignation. That young person—she 
was on the borders of twenty and she looked about sixteen—gave 
unmistakable signs of being ill at ease. Her colour heightened. 
She did strange and unnecessary things with her hands. She 
shifted on her seat much as she might do if seated on a tin-tack 

71 


72 


LITTLE DAVID 


and desirous of concealing the fact. Her expression was peculiar. 
It seemed to arise from a guilty innocent conscience—if such a 
thing can be imagined. She appeared to be partly ashamed; 
her eyes were fresh and unclouded; and they met the gaze of 
Fammy without flinching. 

On a chair by the window lay the remnants of Little David. 
That is to say, the overcoat, jacket, trousers, and cap of that young 
person reposed there in a disconsolate heap. 

John Henry had thought Little David eminently attractive and 
exceedingly appealing, and there is no reason to doubt that his 
opinion of Mabel Canning would have been the same. She was 
not beautiful. She had no pretensions to beauty, but she had a 
charm of her own. Fammy—in moments of expansion—was wont 
to attribute this to what she called her “round-oval scrap of a face.” 
Mabel’s face was not round and it was not oval. It was some¬ 
thing between the two, and that something was exceedingly attrac¬ 
tive so that—on looking at her—you experienced a desire to run 
your finger from one small ear to the other, hesitating, without 
doubt, over the small but determined chin. Her mouth was 
straight but redeemed by lips which were soft and full. Her hair 
was brown, and bobbed, and full of life. It grew very thickly in 
an unrestrained and savage fashion, and it was this which had 
led John Henry to his belief in Little David’s large head. The 
head of Mabel was small, and dainty, and well suited to the 
rest of her slender person. Her eyes were grey, set well apart 
under a generous brow, honest in expression, and exceedingly 
appealing. Her face in repose was one that—if you happened 
to meet it out walking and such things were possible—you would 
immediately kiss as a matter of instinct and because you felt that 
it was the correct thing to do. 

Fammy always did so, but then she was different. She knew 
that Mabel was in need of kisses. Many people are. She appeared 
to have forgotten the fact in the present instance, however, and this 
is not to be wondered at. She had loved, mothered, and pitied 


PEEPS OVER THE HORIZON 


73 


Mabel from infancy upwards, and she had every intention of con¬ 
tinuing to do so—but Fammy was a woman. Mabel, for the 
moment, had ceased to be her foster-child and become a sister- 
woman. One, too, who had acted in a fashion that caused the 
flesh of Fammy to creep and feel hot and uncomfortable. So 
Fammy, without removing her eyes from Mabel’s face, slowly 
crossed the room, sat down in a chair, and continued her scrutiny. 
It was rather cruel, but even the best of women are cruel at times—* 
to their own kind. 

How long this would have continued is hard to say, but there 
came an interruption; and the interruption, which was simple in 
origin, was somewhat startling in nature. A quantity—about half 
a sackful—of soot and cement fell with a rush and clatter on the 
open hearth, ruining the freshness of the tidy kitchen and causing 
the two females to start in alarm. 

“There now!” said Fammy, in tones of immense vexation, but 
her vexation was not caused by the soot. 

Mabel’s figure had collapsed, at the sound, into a crouching 
attitude of apprehension. She clutched the front of her dress. 
The colour ebbed from her face, leaving it white and drawn, and 
on it sat the self-same expression of terror that had moved the 
heart of John Henry to pity Little David. 

“There now, my precious!” said Fammy, and she drew the 
trembling figure to her ample breast. “You have nothing to fear 
with your old Fammy about, bad-tempered, sour old thing though 
she may be. Fancy me staring at you like a Sphinkses—an animal 
that lives in the East, my dear, where Alfred was a soldier—and 
you all a-quiver and a bundle of nerves with the way them brutes 
treated you. You do not require to tell your old Fammy anything 
at all. She knows by looking at you that there is nothing to be 
ashamed of. You are my little girl still, same as you were years 
ago when I could lift you with one hand.” 

“Oh Fammy! It is good to be with you. I never thought to 
see you again. I could never have faced you if-” 



74 


LITTLE DAVID 


“That’s where you are wrong,” said Fammy with emphasis. 
“If it so happened that you had acted foolish-like and were in 
trouble; if all the doors in the world were shut tight against you; 
why, then your old Fammy would almost be glad, for she is a 
selfish old woman and would have you all to herself for ever.” 

“You are a dear, Fammy,” said Mabel, and she kissed her 
with affection—Mabel, it may be remarked in passing, could kiss 
in a very affectionate and engaging fashion. 

“That may be,” said Fammy, “but I do not hold with what you 
have been doing. It makes my hair stand on end to think of the 
risks you have been running. You must never do so again.” 

“Never, never, never ” said Mabel with vehemence, and then 
she added in an altered voice: “No—at least I don’t think so.” 

Over the girl’s head Fammy’s eyebrows rose in an arch of inter¬ 
rogation, but she spoke with assurance. 

“Of course you will not. Not that I am blaming you over-much. 
The fault lies at the door of your father. Some one should tell 
him that you are alive. If ever a man deserved a frosted turnip 
in his bed in place of a hot water bottle, he does. That reminds 
me—talking of beds—the blind man left a message for you.” 

Mabel detached herself hurriedly and regarded her foster-mother 
in astonishment, but Fammy, with an impassive face, set about 
sweeping up the hearth. 

“Talking of beds! The blind man! Whatever do you mean?” 

“He said his name was John Henry Millman,” said Fammy, 
sweeping busily, “and he also said that he would like to see 
you again. He wanted to be sure that you were safe, and he kept 
calling you Little David. Positively indecent it was to listen to 
him!” 

“Oh!” said Mabel. She hesitated for a second and then con¬ 
tinued with indignation. “He is not blind. He is very far from 
blind, and he said a great deal more than that!” 

“So you were listening at the door,” said Fammy, nodding at 
the fire. “I thought as much when I heard it creak.” 


PEEPS OVER THE HORIZON 


75 


“I—I wanted to make sure that he thought me a boy.” 

“She wanted to make sure that he thought her a boy,” repeated 
Fammy, apparently to the fire. “Well, well, I suppose one 
ought to be thankful for small mercies!” 

Mabel, who at times showed wisdom, made no comment on this 
utterance, and presently Fammy continued, still addressing the fire. 

“Better for her to want to make sure of that,” she said distinctly, 
“than to want him to make sure of the other thing. The poor 
innocent believes you are Little David, and he must continue to do 
so. Little David will never be seen again. That is the end of that.” 

Fammy, however, had a shrewd suspicion that it was only the 
beginning. She was sufficiently human to have a lurking hope in 
that direction, and this prompted her next question. 

“What is he, Miss Mabel—apart from being blind and simple?” 

“I don’t know why you persist in calling him blind,” said Mabel, 
“and he is not simple. I do not know what he is except that he 
is kind and looked after me as well as you would have done 
yourself. There is no reason why he should not think me a boy. 
No one ever found out except the Dainty Brute—and he was a 
beast. After that it was different, for I was afraid.” 

Fammy paused in her labours and stared at the fire. 

“Of all the queer things!” she said in wondering tones. “To 
think of you—my own foster-baby—the nicest, quietest girl I ever 
knew, stravaging about the country-side dressed as a boy!” She 
paused and absently rubbed her nose with the end of the brush, 
covering herself with soot in the process. “To think of your 
respectable father, sitting up to his eyes in his money and his 
pride, without a thought of what you are or might be, and you 
spending the night in the company of a strange man! It beats 
everything!” 

“Fammy! You are ruining your clothes,” said Mabel. 

Fammy looked up, and the introspection faded from her 
eyes. She nodded once or twice, and her voice was decided and 
serious. 


76 


LITTLE DAVID 


“Yes,” she said, “but clothes can be washed clean and made 
just as fresh as they were before. You cannot do that with every¬ 
thing, and don’t you go and forget it. I’m a poor woman, but 
I know what are the best things in life. I love you and want to 
see them all in your hands. I know it is dull and lonely for you at 
home, but you must promise never to go out on your own as a boy 
again, without, first of all, telling me about it.” 

“I promise very willingly,” said Mabel seriously. “Indeed I 
have no wish even to go outside the door. I’m scared at the 
slightest sound.” 

Fammy returned to the sweeping up of the hearth. 

“You go and change into some of your own clothes,” she said. 
“You will find everything ready to put on same as they always 
are—waiting for you to come in when you like. Run away now and 
leave my black face alone.” 

Left alone, Fammy sat back on her heels, and the brush fell 
unheeded on the floor. She remained thus for a long time, looking 
with her blackened face like a heathen fire-worshipper, but the 
trend of her thoughts was far from pagan. She was a simple soul, 
and held simple, odd little beliefs at which many learned people 
sneer and some attempt to ridicule. 

“I done it every night since I first held her in my arms,” she 
muttered, “and perhaps that has something to do with it. I can 
explain it in no other way.” 

What Fammy had done every night since Mabel was a baby 
I do not attempt to outline, for she closed her eyes at this point, 
and, although her lips moved, the words were not audible. She 
did speak aloud, a second later, and that I can record, for her 
voice was strong and vigorous. 

“It will not help to clean up this mess, however,” said Fammy, 
and went on with her task with application. 

Mabel found both the kitchen and Fammy clean and smiling 
when she appeared from above clad in a fitting and seemly fashion. 

“You h^d best write home and say you are with me,” said 


PEEPS OVER THE HORIZON 


77 


Fammy. “It will be better for you to stay here till your nerves 
are normal, instead of moping in the big house by yourself.” 

“They know that I am here,” said Mabel, and she paused in some 
confusion. “I’m sorry, Fammy, but I had to say I was going 
somewhere, and I knew they would not suspect anything if they 
thought I was here.” 

“Well, well,” said Fammy, and she sighed. “That is all past 
and done with. What you want now is rest and quiet, and that 
you will have, for no man ever comes here now that poor Alfred 
has gone away.” 

Men had grown to Fammy to stand for an excessive noise and 
disturbance. This was due to Alfred. He had been her husband, 
and although he had been dead for years Fammy always spoke as 
if he had just that moment left the room. Her married life had 
not been happy. Alfred had been weak and selfish, and, while he 
expected her to work hard during the day, had thought nothing 
of filling her kitchen, night after night, with his noisy companions. 
Fammy’s clean fire-side was a pleasant spot at which to sit and 
drink. Fammy had borne with him in silence for that which she 
had imagined him to be before marriage, and the fullness of her 
generous heart had expended itself on Mabel. Alfred had literally 
gone out, one evening, suddenly as a candle might when an extin¬ 
guisher descends on the flame, and the mind behind the extinguisher 
thinks: “Enough! Put out the light and rest.” 

Fammy had been resting for several years. 

“There are men, and men, and also men ” said Fammy to Mabel, 
that night, as they sat by the fire, “but I never saw any man look 
like that blind man of yours when I asked him what his business 
was. He is a poor creature that wants to be looked after, of that 
I am certain.” 

“I wish, Fammy—” commenced Mabel in apparent indignation, 
but whatever it was she wished did not transpire for, at that 
moment, there came a hesitating knock at the door. 

“That will be Mrs. Beedbit,” said Fammy. “She always knocks 


78 


LITTLE DAVID 


soft-like when she wants to borrow anything. She has lodgers, 
poor soul. Bring her in like a dear child while I make up the fire. 
You cannot mistake her. She will be standing on the doorstep 
like the penitent thief.” 

Mabel, however, did not find Mrs. Beedbit on the doorstep. 
She found a vastly different person. One that drew an exclamation 
of horror from her lips and brought the red blood to her cheeks 
in shame and distress. It was the melancholy odd man from the 
Black Bull at Tipping Horley and he held a parcel in his hand. 
He was wrapped in a gloom that seemed infinitely profound and he 
did not appear to look at Mabel with either of his eyes. They 
roamed about like two independent parties engaged on an active 
competition to find something that was lost. 

“What do you want?” panted Mabel, and she half closed the 
door and peered out at the crack. 

The odd man had not an opportunity of replying, for Fammy 
who had heard the cry arriving at this moment—her maternal 
instincts aroused—whisked Mabel on one side, opened the door, 
and filling the doorway with her ample form, confronted him like 
an indignant fury. She opened her mouth to speak, but words 
failed her at the sight of the odd man. She stood, resting her hands 
on her hips, while Mabel peeped out from behind her skirts like 
a protected chicken. 

“Don’t tell me that this is another one!” she said presently in 
tones of despair. Then she continued in an altered voice. “If 
it’s trouble you are looking for, my man, and you seem to be 
looking for something, you have come to the right door. If you are 
not outside my gate in ten seconds you will be sorry for it!” 

The odd man laughed. 

“Trouble!” he said. “Trouble is looking for me—calling for 
me like mad, I should imagine by experience.” He thrust out a 
parcel done up in brown paper. “Things should be returned to 
their owners. This belongs to the young man who was at our 
house, last night, with his little brother.” 


PEEPS OVER THE HORIZON 


79 


“What is it?” asked Fammy, interested, slightly mollified, but 
regarding the parcel with suspicion as if it might fly up and bite 
her face. “Not that I understand what you are talking about,” she 
added hastily. 

“Pyjamas/’ said the odd man. “Pyjamas suitable for an adult 
lady of generous proportions.” 

Fammy gasped and acted with precision and despatch. Her fist 
shot out and would—in the natural course of events—have landed 
on the nose of the odd man, but that gentleman—in spite of his 
wandering eyes—caught it neatly when it was a fraction distant 
from his face. He held it firmly, but gently, and returned it, as 
it were, to its owner with thanks. 

“Trouble always finds me,” he said, and there was a weary 
note in his voice. “Trouble, noise, and abuse are after me all day 
long in the Black Bull, so I expect it comes natural for them to 
follow me when I go out.” 

Fammy was never able to explain afterwards why she did it. 
She pointed this out to Mabel that same night as they were going 
to bed, and for a long time afterwards she pointed it out to her 
on every possible occasion. There were things one did, according 
to Fammy, just because one did them and for no other reason. 

“Come in and sit by the fire,” said Fammy, and she stood on 
one side to permit of the odd man entering, “then you can tell us 
what you are after.” 

The odd man came in and sat by the fire. Fammy sat opposite 
to him, lost apparently in a species of astonished trance caused by 
his appearance. Mabel sat between the two but well in the rear, 
in a reserved and inconspicuous fashion. The odd man presented 
an even more extraordinary spectacle than he had done in the 
Black Bull on the previous night. His apron had, of necessity, 
vanished. He was dressed in an old and faded suit of clothes 
which he failed to fill and his beard had disappeared, but—to 
make up for this perhaps—a long gash spread across his chin. 
His boots were in keeping with his hat which reposed on the 


80 


LITTLE DAVID 


floor—they were both green and mottled with age. He looked, 
more than ever, like a sorry and dispirited ghost, and the gash on 
his chin gave the impression that he had been attempting to commit 
suicide and failed in the attempt. 

“Beer!” said Fammy, interrogatively and suddenly, coming out 
of her trance with a start. 

The face of the odd man lit up with an unholy joy. 

“Beer!” he repeated, dwelling on the word with unction. “Beer! 
Beer! Yes, it might be done with beer, but you would want a 
lot. Then you could slip the whole boiling of them in at one time 
and watch them drown to death. It would be great!” 

“You blood-thirsty ruffian!” gasped Fammy. “What do you 
mean?” 

“The Tippling Howling Maniacs that kept people awake all 
night, the landlord that would not take two lost travellers into his 
house, the people—whoever they may be—who frightened a g-boy 
half out of his wits—the whole damned lot of them swimming 
about at one time,” said the odd man with great animation. He 
withdrew the eye which had been staring at the fire—the other one 
continued to gaze at a point on the wall—and fixed Fammy with 
a fierce glare. “I would stand at the edge with a stick and rap 
their knuckles when they tried to climb out!” 

“Bless us!” said Fammy. “What a strange man it is, almost 
as queer as the blind creature that called here this morning.” 

The odd man sat forward and one long lean hand shot out 
accusingly at Fammy. 

“None of that!” he said fiercely, and he transferred his other 
eye from the wall and glared at Fammy’s face with both eyes at 
one and the same time. He grimaced grotesquely, as he did 
this, for the manoeuvre appeared both complicated and difficult. 
“None of that. There is them that I will not hear a word against 
from you or anyone else!” 

Fammy gasped, stricken dumb between astonishment and alarm, 
for the odd man was a fearsome spectacle; but Mabel, who had 


PEEPS OVER THE HORIZON 


81 


been regarding him from behind with a deep distrust and some 
confusion, suddenly drew her chair forward on a level with the 
others and became confident, and composed, although still some¬ 
what flushed. Whether it was the words of the odd man, or the 
sight of his fearsome face, which brought this to pass, I cannot tell. 
It happened. That is all I know. 

This move of Mabel’s, in the case of Fammy, acted as a correc¬ 
tive to the sight of the odd man. She snorted. It also acted as a 
corrective to the odd man himself. His eyes returned to their 
former and diverse occupations, and he relapsed back into his 
chair. There was an interval during which Fammy was faintly 
heard to affirm: “Of all the queer things!” but this was a mere 
whisper and it was the odd man who eventually broke the silence. 

“A butcher does not want to spend the evening surrounded by 
stacks of dead meat, and the same applies to drink. I will not 
have any beer—thanking you all the same.” He made a ghostly 
pass with his left hand, and his left eye showed a tendency to 
stray from the fire in the direction of Mabel. “To tell one 
person what another person thinks and says about them is the 
first step towards a crime.” 

Fammy, who was simple and somewhat distraught, looked 
alarmed at this, but Mabel, who no doubt was cold, bent forward 
to warm her hands at the fire—in fact her hands appeared to 
appeal humbly to the fire for warmth. She had pretty little hands. 
There was something very touching in her attitude as if she were 
throwing herself on the mercy of some mighty presence that had 
to be placated. 

The odd man achieved a terrible and complicated contortion, 
and both his eyes stared at the same photograph on the wall. If 
he did this to avoid looking at Mabel, it was unfortunate, for 
the photograph in question was of that young woman, taken quite 
recently, and it showed a plaintive, odd, little face with two 
honest, confiding eyes, and was, in effect, quite engaging and 
charming. 


82 


LITTLE DAVID 


The odd man frowned, then he appeared to smile, and last of 
all he made a despairing motion with his hands and commenced 
to speak; but before he achieved this feat Fammy uttered a cryptic 
remark in a toneless voice. 

“I’ve been doing it for nineteen years,” she said, “ever since 
she was a baby, so you need not worry! If you think you can 
withstand her when she wants to hear anything, I’m sorry for you!” 

“When a man’s arm is stiff,” said the odd man suddenly, “it 
has to be rubbed till he jumps with the pain”—Mabel jumped, 
by the way, but never mind—“then he feels better. That is that. 
A man is hungry till he has had breakfast, and that is that. A 
man who takes the trouble to speak kindly—when there is no one 
about to hear—to a creature that every one else spits at, is not going 
to think evil of any creature under the sun—without proof, and 
that is also that. Lastly, a man likes to hear about the things 
he is interested in, even when they do not exist, and the man 
I’m thinking about believes firmly in the existence of a thing 
like that.” 

“It’s about time you went back to Tipping Horley,” said 
Fammy with decision, but her voice was kindly. 

The odd man laughed. 

“It is,” he said with grim enjoyment. “They will have shouted 
themselves hoarse by now. They don’t even know I have gone. 
I have not been away from that place, for more than an hour at 
a stretch, for months. It will do them good.” 

He rose abruptly to his feet, and, assuming his hat, drifted 
towards the door. There he paused, and his eyes once more 
entered into an individual and active competition to find some¬ 
thing that appeared to be lost. 

“A man’s property should be returned—when it is of value to 
him,” he said, and he coughed. Then his voice fell several tones 
deeper and he seemed to descend into the depths of gloom. 
“Questions do not require to be answered, but there is no harm 
in making a remark. I am searching for something—something I 


PEEPS OVER THE HORIZON 


83 


stopped looking for years ago—till to-day. I shall not find it, of 
course, but that is no reason why other people should not. Good¬ 
night!” 

He departed as the last words were on his lips, and left the 
house so rapidly that Mabel, who had risen to her feet, was only 
in time to hear his steps receding along the road. She went ouit 
to the gate and called a farewell greeting, but there was no reply. 
She came back to the kitchen, and there Fammy greeted her with 
a remark, and a face that was both severe and softened. 

“A man’s property should be returned when it is of value to 
him!” she said, and she held up, not the pyjamas which lay 
disregarded on the table, but the note John Henry had received 
that morning. This she had found where he had thrust it when 
the boots commenced to rub his arm—in the pocket of the objec¬ 
tionable pyjamas. 

“Oh!” said Mabel, and she grew very red in the face. 

“I have not read it, my dear,” said Fammy. “I am not that 
kind with any one I like and trust, but I am going to send it 
back to its owner. He deserves that, for he will never have 
another note from the one that wrote it, if I guess aright who that 
person may be.” 

“Oh!” said Mabel, for the second time, but the inflection of 
her voice was entirely different. 

“Run and light the lamps upstairs,” said Fammy in an altered 
voice. “We must go to bed soon.” 

Mabel went, and the moment she had gone Fammy grasped the 
tongs, lifted the objectionable pyjamas, deposited them on the 
fire, and held them there till they were burnt to ashes, but the 
note she slipped into the bosom of her gown. 

“I could not sleep easy with them things lying about,” she 
muttered. “The mere thought of them with him inside makes 
me feel indecent. Of all the queer things! I wonder what it will 
lead to, for every road ends somewhere!” 

She straightened herself with a jerk and gazed at the ceiling in 


84 


LITTLE DAVID 


an attitude of attention, while her face softened and grew exceed¬ 
ingly tender. 

“I’ve never heard her do that before of her own accord,” she 
muttered, “and I’ve been longing to hear it all my life.” 

In the room above Mabel was singing. She was far from keep¬ 
ing in tune, but that did not matter. It was the quality of her 
voice which pleased Fammy. 


CHAPTER VIII 


THE TERRIBLE ORDEAL OF JOHN HENRY MILL MAN 

John Henry, about this time, gave unmistakable signs that some¬ 
thing unusual was afoot. He was wearing his grandfather’s scarf- 
pin—a handsome trifle, and as that remained in the keeping of 
a Hebrew gentlemen in Praed Street unless under exceptional 
circumstances, this, by itself, was remarkable. There were other 
and even stranger signs, however. Veronica—I have said nothing 
about Veronica so far, but I shall make haste to rectify the error— 
perceived with a growing astonishment that for five consecutive 
days he had dined at the Italian restaurant over the way, where 
you can have no meal cheaper than one and eightpence. This was 
an unparalleled circumstance, and it continued. He had an egg, 
too, every morning with his breakfast, although this was not so 
exceptional since eggs—owing to the kindly action of the hens— 
were cheaper at the moment. When, however, a new hat appeared 
in his room, then Veronica was forced to suspect either that he had 
gone mad, or that he had found some illicit means of obtaining 
money. 

She was disturbed. Her life revolved round John Henry. She 
believed him to be quite incapable of looking after himself. His 
habit of writing was the one point in his character to which she 
had objection. It was unnatural and indecent—she had once 
read a stray sheet where he had expatiated on the charms of a 
female character. The thought that he might make money by 
such a means never occurred to her. People, she knew, were not 
fools. She decided that some unscrupulous person had got hold 
of him to use as an innocent and unthinking instrument for some 

85 


86 


LITTLE DAVID 


vile purpose. She never suspected John Henry personally. That, 
she knew, was impossible, but she was fired with a great desire 
to save him from disaster. 

John Henry lived in what had once been a dwellinghouse but 
was now a rabbit-warren. He was, and had been for some time 
past, the ground floor back; just as Veronica was, and had been 
from the day she left her Charity Home, the servant of the estab¬ 
lishment. The house belonged to one by name Mrs. Baldwin, by 
occupation a lodging-house keeper, and by nature, a bitter-tempered 
shrew. John Henry “did” for himself in this abode of bliss with 
no attendance, but he had more attendance than any other crea¬ 
ture in the house, or indeed in most houses. Veronica looked after 
him. His room was invariably clean, with everything just as he 
left it. He was a man of tidy habits, but he was a man. That is 
to say he was untidy to the feminine mind and nature. Veronica 
bore with this and made no attempt to rectify it. She was a woman 
of great wisdom. 

Mrs. Baldwin, although she was a shrew, had a sense of justice. 
She also knew when she had what she called “a good thing” in her 
grasp. Veronica worked hard, cost little, and had a small appetite. 
She was not attractive to look at and gave no trouble in that 
direction. Her appearance incited remarks from the boys in the 
neighbourhood, and so she seldom went out. Mrs. Baldwin liked 
going out. She liked going out every night, if it were only to the 
bar round the corner. Not that any one could accuse Mrs. Baldwin 
of being intemperate—far from it. She was never the worse for 
drink. It was impossible to make her drunk. Liquor disappeared 
down her capacious throat as into a barrel, silently and with no 
effect. Under these circumstances Veronica suited Mrs. Baldwin 
down to the ground, and her sense of justice insisted that the girl’s 
work should be finished at eight o’clock each night. It did not, 
however, deter her from locking the coal cellar and larder doors 
when she went out for the evening. 

That was where John Henry came in. He had descended—one 


THE TERRIBLE ORDEAL 


87 


night shortly after his arrival—to the depths where Mrs. Baldwin 
existed, in pursuit of a shilling for the slot of the gas-meter. It 
was a very cold night with snow and rain in the air, and slush and 
dirt in the streets. He stumbled down the back stairs, felt his way 
along a dark, cold passage, and emerged in a huge, gloomy cavern 
of a room which had once been the cheerful kitchen of a large and 
prosperous house. Mrs. Baldwin was not there. In fact he 
imagined that there was no one there. He was quickly disillusioned 
on this point, however. 

“What has brought you down here?” demanded a shrill, indig¬ 
nant voice. 

John Henry perceived that what he had thought, at first sight, 
to be a bundle of old clothes thrown on a chair by the hearth was, 
in truth, a girl. He was astonished, for there was little but the 
remnants of a fire in the grate, and the one gas-jet on the wall gave 
an exceedingly insufficient light. The girl, who was Veronica, 
repeated her question in an even shriller voice; but she remained 
in the chair and in the shadow cast by the mantelshelf. 

“I wondered—” commenced John Henry hesitatingly, and he 
shivered in the chill atmosphere of the place. “I wondered,” 
repeated John Henry with confidence, “if you would care to come 
up and sit by my fire instead of freezing down here in the cold.” 

Veronica laughed a short, bitter laugh. 

“Oh, no, you did not ” she said, and she rose and stood in the 
light. There was not much light, but it was sufficient to outline 
her uncouth, lop-sided figure, the yellow, wizened face, and the 
dark, lifeless hair drawn into a small and unlovely knot. 

John Henry saw all this, but it was the expression of a dumb 
animal waiting to be struck across the face that attracted his 
attention the most. He saw this so clearly that Veronica’s gro¬ 
tesque appearance passed unnoticed. 

“Your kind don’t want to have anything to do with me,” said 
Veronica grimly. “I would have plenty of trouble in this house if 
my outside were different.” 


88 


LITTLE DAVID 


that Veronica, for the first time, was seated at ease, and the sight 
pleased him. 

“What have you been busy at, Veronica?” he asked. 

“Standing outside of your door waiting to hear if you would 
remember,” said Veronica in a stifled voice, “and . . . my 

God . . . you did!” 

She flung her apron over her head and burst into a torrent of 
passionate weeping. John Henry remained where he was and said 
nothing, and presently Veronica, having ceased to weep, mopped 
her face and left the room. At the door she looked back at John 
Henry and spoke. 

“I’m not going to say anything, for I can’t,” she said. “It would 
be foolish. I’m going to “do” for you.” 

It may be remarked in passing that she very nearly did “do” for 
poor John Henry, because her ambition rose, at first, to the height 
of cooking him fancy meals. John Henry found it necessary to 
convince her that he was a cook both by birth and inclination. 
He succeeded eventually but it was a hard task. Veronica was far 
from being a fool. 

The remarks of Mrs. Baldwin, when she learnt that Veronica 
was to be seen constantly passing into John Henry’s room of an 
evening, may be imagined, but they cannot be printed. According 
to Mrs. Baldwin there would have been nothing to say at all if 
Veronica had been pretty, or even fairly pleasant to look at, but 
as it was—well! Mrs. Baldwin had a fair flow of language and 
quite a good wind, and the neighbours, while they were thrilled 
to the marrow, were also exceedingly disappointed. 

Veronica had listened in silence to a considerable discourse which 
had reference to herself, but when Mrs. Baldwin diverged to John 
Henry, she leant forward with such a fierce expression on her 
withered face that Mrs. Baldwin was struck dumb of a sudden— 
stopped like a gramophone when you lift the sound-box. 

“That’s enough,” said Veronica. “Say a word against him and 
I’ll spit in your face. I’m not anything more to him than a cat 


THE TERRIBLE ORDEAL 


89 


Veronica, as I have said before, was a woman of great wisdom. 

“Just as you please,” said John Henry, “but it would be kinder 
if you come up. I am not rich and two fires burn a lot of 
coal. Are you coming up, or am I going to bring down a 
shovelful?” 

They regarded each other in silence for a few moments and 
then Veronica spoke in a short and ungracious voice. 

“M come up,” she said. 

She came up, and John Henry was forced to go out into the snow 
in search of his shilling, for he did not wish Veronica to suspect 
the real reason of his descent to the depths. He returned and 
went on with his work; and Veronica sat on the edge of a chair in 
an uncomfortable attitude, regarding him with suspicion, till it 
was time to go to bed. She did not utter one word during that time. 
As she was going out of the door, however, she did. 

“She locks up everything when she goes out,” she said shortly. 

John Henry looked up from his task and bade her good-night, 
and the next evening he watched for the departure of Mrs. Baldwin 
and then called Veronica up from the depths. She came and sat 
on the same chair, but she occupied a slightly larger portion of it, 
and that night she managed to say good-night of her own accord. 
This went on for four nights, but on the fifth night John Henry 
was so engrossed in his work that he forgot about Veronica alto¬ 
gether. He remembered as the clocks were striking ten, and he 
sprang to his feet in horror. 

“Good heavens!” he exclaimed in a voice of vexation, “and it is 
the coldest night we have had this year! I must call her up at 
once I” 

This was not necessary, however, for the door opened at that 
point and Veronica came slowly into the room. 

“I’ve been busy,” she announced ungraciously, “so if you called 
me you wasted your breath.” 

She crossed to her chair while John Henry, with a sigh of 
relief, returned to his task. Presently he looked up and perceived 


90 


LITTLE DAVID 


or a dog, and you know it for all your foul talk. You leave 
me alone and I’ll leave you. I do my work well, and you 
will get no one else to do it for nothing. That’s the end of 
that.” 

It was, and the neighbours were, as I have already said, exceed¬ 
ingly disappointed. The more so since they believed that Veronica’s 
words were true, and that, by itself, was an immense disappoint¬ 
ment. They almost felt indignant against John Henry because he 
had not acted in the fashion indicated by Mrs. Baldwin. It 
would have been so interesting to see him go by and to think 
horrible things about him, so pleasant to point him out to friends 
and acquaintances. He was out, fortunately, when the interview 
took place, and no one ever dared to mention it to him; so the 
matter was of no moment. 

It is not surprising, therefore, that, when Veronica came to the 
conclusion that John Henry was sailing gaily towards some fearful 
disaster, she should be filled with a great determination to save 
him. The appearance of the hat convinced her that something 
was wrong; and John Henry, himself, supplied added proof by an 
altered demeanour. He was moody, and disturbed, and irritable. 
He spent a considerable time each day in reading and re-reading 
three letters which appeared both to please and yet to sadden him. 
The first letter you are familiar with. It does not bear repeating. 
But with the others you are not. 

The second letter said: 

“Mr. Millman sir your obedient servant Mrs. Bluebell has done 
what was asked of her and wishes to say that Little David is well 
and happy and has no wish to see you again leastwise that is not 
what”—John Henry spent a long time over the next word which 
was nothing but a blot—“he says but what he means. Mrs. Blue¬ 
bell is very grateful for your kindness and she thinks you ought to 
have your eyes seen to at once for you will be the better of it and 
wishing you all respects herewith.” 

This letter was written in a large, straggling hand, with a total 


THE TERRIBLE ORDEAL 


91 


disregard of punctuation, and there was a detached and astonish¬ 
ing statement lower down on the sheet. 

“Him that has two eyes was here.” 

John Henry, pondering the postscript, evaded with difficulty 
the thought that Mrs. Bluebell’s friends were all people with 
only one, or more than two eyes. He could make nothing of it 
till he recalled the surprising fact that Little David’s first note had 
come enclosed in Mrs. Bluebell’s letter. Then he knew that “him 
that has two eyes” must be the odd man from the Black Bull at 
Tipping Horley. This brought the thought to John Henry’s mind 
that every one was very kind to him without reason. Perhaps 
they were. 

The third letter said: 

“Dear big-hearted Brother, I am enclosing the money I borrowed, 
and wish to say that I have thought of you every day since I left 
the Black Bull. I am quite well and happy, and there is no necessity 
for you to worry about me. I hope your arm is quite all right now, 
and that you do not regret having wasted so much time and money 
on Little David who cannot say how grateful he is and always 
will be.” 

There was a postscript to this letter. 

“Little David would like very much to see you again but he 
cannot, for he has promised not to do so, otherwise I think he 
would.” 

There was a second postscript to this letter. 

“Little David does not mean that. What he means is that he 
hopes he will see you again, but he cannot come to see you or ask 
you to come and see him. That is impossible.” 

There was a third postscript to this letter. 

“Yours were burnt by Mrs. Bluebell. I could not help it.” 

This third letter disturbed John Henry because he imagined that 
Little David was not happy. There was no address, and the post¬ 
mark was the same as that on Mrs. Bluebell’s letter. John Henry 
knew what he wanted to do, but failed to see how it could be done. 


92 


LITTLE DAVID 


He wanted to make quite certain that Little David was out of 
trouble, and as he wanted to do this without letting the boy see him, 
and as he did not even know where he was, or what his name might 
be, the matter presented difficulties the solutions of which he failed 
to fathom. 

In the unsettled condition produced by this state of affairs he 
went, by appointment, to the offices of Canning and Canning; and 
there he found the Dainty Brute seated in the general office, com¬ 
placently admiring the shine on his highly polished boots. The 
sight of this gentleman completely drove the agonizing sensations 
that the office aroused from John Henry’s mind. He—you will 
scarcely credit it but it is true—absolutely forgot where he was and 
what he had come for, and he acted just as if he were in ordinary 
and commonplace surroundings. He approached the Dainty Brute 
and tapped him on the shoulder. 

“You,” he said, “are the very man I have been trying to find.” 

The Dainty Brute, alarmed at the tone of his voice, looked up; 
and the sight of John Henry’s face did not lessen his alarm. He 
rose unexpectedly, shot his chair towards John Henry, missed him 
by an inch, and, making for the door, fled out of the building with 
John Henry in hot pursuit. 

It is a terrible and sad reflection to think that John Henry left 
the building without even a thought of the Three Mighty Beings 
who awaited his arrival wrapped in the unspeakable majesty of 
their great calling. 

The Dainty Brute ran, and John Henry ran after him, and as 
London streets are not good places to run in without attracting 
attention, the Dainty Brute diverged into Blank Street, and putting 
on speed, gained the far end just as John Henry appeared at the 
other. He would have been away, lost in Charing Cross Road, 
and out of sight before John Henry could have reached him, 
but, as he turned into that thoroughfare, a constable turned out of 
it. The Dainty Brute cannoned into the constable, and John Henry 
in the distance raised a shout; whereupon the constable, grasping 


THE TERRIBLE ORDEAL 


93 


the Dainty Brute, drew him back into Blank Street and towards 
John Henry. 

“Thank you, officer,” said John Henry, panting but keeping 
his eyes fixed on the Dainty Brute. “Thank you for stopping him.” 

“Lord bless you,” said the constable. “There is nothing in that. 
I would stop him on suspicion if he was running after his own hat. 
I know him well. We all know him well, and he knows us. He 
will make no attempt to escape now that I have stopped him.” 

The constable, who was a young fresh-faced officer, released his 
hold of the Dainty Brute and turned to John Henry. 

“Bless my soul I” he exclaimed in an astonished voice. “I know 
you too. You are the man who took the boy away from here some 
weeks ago. What do you want with Isaac Farstein?” 

“That is the man I took him from,” said John Henry fiercely, 
“and I want to have a word with him about the way the boy had 
been treated.” 

“Oh, ho!” said the constable. “This sounds interesting. Mr. 
Isaac Farstein is starting a new line of business! What were 
you doing with the boy?” 

The Dainty Brute made no reply but contented himself with 
glaring malevolently at John Henry. 

“I want to know that also,” said John Henry. 

“He wants to know that also!” repeated the Dainty Brute. He 
appeared to be startled, incredulous, and finally amazed. 

“I do,” said John Henry. “That is the main reason why I 
pursued you. I want to know how he came into your clutches, and 
what you were going to force him to do.” 

“Well I’m damned if this does not beat everything,” said the 
Dainty Brute, and he burst into a roar of laughter. 

“You had better go, Robert,” he said to the constable, when he 
had recovered sufficiently to speak. “You are not wanted here. 
You cannot arrest me for running along the street. You would be 
wise not to do so on suspicion, for it will go against yourself. 
You have proof of nothing and neither has he.” 


94 


LITTLE DAVID 


“There is truth in what the man says,” said the constable, turn¬ 
ing apologetically to John Henry. “I cannot detain him without 
reason. He is a blackleg, but he is clever. We know all about 
him, but we can seldom prove anything. He has brought more 
than one of us into trouble and disgrace.” 

The Dainty Brute smiled as if highly gratified by a graceful 
compliment. 

“That’s a fact,” he said complacently. “There is no reason for 
this gentleman to want you to detain me. There is no reason why 
I should want to run away from him—now. In fact I shall remain 
with him like a brother till he tells me to go.” 

“In that case,” said the constable, “I’ll be moving on. Good- 
day, sir, and good luck!” 

He went towards Soho, leaving John Henry and the Dainty 
Brute staring at each other, the former with animosity, and the 
latter with assurance and amused self-possession. 

“What did you do with the boy?” asked the Dainty Brute with 
evident curiosity. 

“Took him to his people,” said John Henry shortly, “where he 
is safe, for if I know nothing, they know everything both about 
him and you.” 

“My hat! What an escape!” said the Dainty Brute with obvious 
sincerity, but to what he referred did not transpire. He meditated 
profoundly, and he cast furtive glances at John Henry as he did so, 
then he appeared to come to a decision. “We cannot stand here 
like a couple of fools,” he said. “Come along with me—that is 
if you are not afraid!” 

“I’m not afraid of you, or any one,” said John Henry shortly, 
“and as I am determined to get the information I want, we might 
as well go somewhere where we can talk without attracting 
attention.” 

“You would attract attention—anywhere,” said the Dainty Brute 
as they walked down Charing Cross Road. 


THE TERRIBLE ORDEAL 


95 


John Henry resented the remark and the manner in which it 
was made, but he remained silent. 

“Because you look so damned clever,” continued the Dainty 
Brute as they commenced to cross the road. 

“No necessity to be insulting,” said John Henry shortly as they 
paused, held up by the traffic, on an island. 

“That you would, be bound to see everything except what was 
under your nose,” ended the Dainty Brute, and as he said this he 
kicked John Henry violently on the ankle with the heel of his boot, 
took advantage of a gap in the traffic, and gained the opposite 
pavement in safety. 

Poor John Henry, stunned by the suddenness of the action and 
the severity of the pain, stumbled, and saving himself by a miracle 
from falling under the wheels of a passing bus, clung to the lamp- 
post. By the time that the traffic permitted of his limping over 
to the pavement there was no sign or trace of the Dainty Brute 
to be seen. John Henry realized that he had been neatly and cleverly 
done. He limped into a Lyons tea-shop, ordered a cup of tea, and 
meditated upon himself in the light of a fool. It was as he was 
doing this, profoundly and with a deep contempt, that he remem¬ 
bered his appointment with the Three Mighty Beings of Mead 
House. 

The memory drove him out of the shop with rapidity in spite of 
his foot. He was conscious of a sudden babel of talk as the door 
slammed behind him, but he gave it no thought. To this day 
John Henry is totally unconscious of the fact that he not only 
omitted to drink, but also to pay, for that cup of tea. He even 
forgot the Dainty Brute, and although Little David remained in 
his mind, he was in the background. John Henry was more than 
an hour late for his appointment. 

He shuddered as he crossed the threshold of Mead House. His 
steps became slower and slower as he approached the door of 
Canning and Canning, the famous publishers. He thought of the 
Three Figures seated in the room of harrowing memories, and 


96 


LITTLE DAVID 


his heart turned to water. He opened the door, and went in, and 
as he did so he clenched his teeth hard. There was no valid reason 
for being late that he could offer. In every panic he felt that he 
could offer none. He could not even apologize. He was tongue- 
tied. 

Some things are better left unsaid. Mere words can but miser¬ 
ably convey the fury of a tiger deprived of its prey, or the dread 
majesty of a storm at sea, and so it is with the terrible ordeal John 
Henry Millman had to face. For me to attempt a description would 
be absurd. It would be a wanton waste of Words. I wish to 
state, however, that John Henry returned home in a cab, and not in 
a hearse; and although he was prostrated and shattered to the core, 
he was still sufficiently conscious to feel the pain in his foot. He 
was deeply conscious also of having passed a misspent afternoon, 
and one that could have no possible advantage to any one except, 
perhaps the taxi-driver. 

He was entirely at fault in his imaginings, as it happened, for 
the afternoon was, in truth, one of the best spent afternoons in his 
life. Several and excellent results transpired therefrom, two of 
which may here be mentioned. Veronica, who watched his arrival 
from the basement, was convinced of the fact that he had fallen 
into bad and unscrupulous hands, and she determined to act. The 
Dainty Brute, who had called at the office of Canning and Canning 
with the idea of blackmail in his mind, abandoned his object, 
frightened by John Henry’s words on the subject of Little David’s 
people. These by themselves constituted a sufficient justification 
for a damaged foot, and the keeping of Three Mighty Beings in 
impatient uncertainty; but there were other and greater results, 
and these you will appreciate as John Henry did—when he under¬ 
stood them. 


CHAPTER IX 


IN WHICH LITTLE DAVID WEEPS BITTERLY 

Mabel Canning returned to the home of her father filled with 
good intentions judicially administered by Fammy who was wise 
and knew just how to give good advice without seeming to do so. 
She had recovered, more or less, from the state of nerves in which 
John Henry had found her, and her outlook on life was consider¬ 
ably modified thereby. Mabel, being barely twenty, knew every¬ 
thing and was quite fitted to guide her own destiny—so she 
thought. It is only as one grows older that one realizes how 
utterly inefficient one’s own thoughts and actions are. 

The servants, with the exception of the housekeeper who looked 
on Mabel as a source of worry, welcomed her home. She was a 
favourite with them. Her father did not welcome her home. He 
had failed to grasp the fact of her absence. This was slightly 
discouraging, but it is foolish to lose heart at the first stile. The 
proper thing is to climb over and go on. Mabel went on. She 
commenced to study her father, attempting thereby, poor child, to 
arrive at a knowledge of his tastes and habits, his likings and 
objections. In this her father had helped her. He had no objection 
to her presence so long as she remained silent and non-existent. 

Philip Canning, apart from being a publisher, was a fairly 
interesting man. He had ideas of his own and lived up to them. 
His life was a clean, well-regulated thing that went smoothly and 
without hitch. Mabel inherited the straight line of her mouth 
from him, only in his case it was not redeemed by lips both full 
and sensitive. He was austere and just by nature, aesthetic by taste, 
and of a somewhat mechanical turn of mind. His hobby was 

97 


98 


LITTLE DAVID 


engineering and the electric plant of his big house was a source of 
constant joy—to him. Mabel had an unfortunate habit of fouling 
the wires. He was proud of the business of which he was the head 
and owner, and he kept a firm grip and a guiding hand on 
every particular relating to it, although his inclinations lead him 
to remain at a distance from town. It was a well-known fact that 
nothing on earth could hurry Canning and Canning, but the reason 
for this was known to very few people. The real office of the firm 
was Philip Canning’s study in the big house, some thirty miles 
from Paddington, and two miles distant from the town where the 
fast trains stop before dashing past Tipping Horley, Crompton, 
and other small places. The prestige of the firm lost nothing by 
this. 

If any one had asked him what he thought about Mabel, Philip 
Canning would have been startled, for a second, because he did not 
think of her at all. She was there. She was his child. She had 
everything provided for her, even to an allowance of money to 
spend, and was consequently happy and contented. There was 
nothing to make her otherwise. She was part of his establishment 
like his dogs, only the dogs went out for walks with him frequently 
and this Mabel seldom did. The dogs fawned on him also and he 
patted them on the head. He had, at one time, been in the habit 
of patting Mabel on the head, but that was a long time ago when 
she was small. To pat a small child on the head is sensible, but to 
pat a large girl on the same place is foolish. The necessity has 
departed! 

At the proper time he had selected a governess for the child—a 
quiet, decent, narrow-minded soul, devoid of imagination and of a 
strictly moral turn of mind. Later on he had selected a school—a 
good, expensive, steady concern where no nonsense was allowed and 
very few pupils admitted. The schooling past, his interest had 
awakened, for a few moments, to the fact of her permanent return 
home; but the sight of Mabel in her short skirts, grubby after a 
journey and scared to death under his scrutinizing eyes, soon killed 


LITTLE DAVID WEEPS BITTERLY 


99 


that. She was a child. Some day she would become a woman 
and marry. He had no son. A fresh head would be wanted in 
the business eventually, but the necessity was not urgent. Mean¬ 
time there was nothing to worry about. His life had gone on as 
usual—after an interval of petty annoyances. 

These had been created by Mabel, and he had not hesitated to 
put a stop to them. Every Sunday morning they went to church 
together; but to interrupt him in his work, without reason, was 
absurd. He had told her so with decision. To expect him to be 
interested, too, in female children that he had never, and would 
never see, was equally as absurd as to think that he would permit 
Mabel to go on a visit to families that were neither sufficiently 
rich, nor sufficiently well bom, for his child to associate with. 
To go on a visit to people he knew and approved of was different— 
it was, and this Mabel had very soon found out. 

Philip Canning was a good man. His intentions were excellent 
towards Mabel and everyone else. He lived his life, drew satis¬ 
faction therefrom, and received the respect of the world at large 
which he undoubtedly deserved. He was as far from imagining 
that there was a want in Mabel’s life as he would have been 
puzzled to know how to set about rectifying the matter. That he 
would have made the attempt there can be no doubt, but the idea 
never entered his head. He did not imagine that she was striving 
to consider his wishes, nor dream that the petty incidents which 
annoyed him arose from a desire on her part to please and arouse 
his interest. He lived—or rather he existed—badly in need of an 
earthquake, or some other slight disturbance, to awaken him to the 
facts that matter in life. 

“Your father loves you just as I do—in his own fashion,” had 
counselled the wise Fammy. “The difficulty lies in the fact that 
you do not understand him. You are young and unformed. He is 
older and his life is set. You must try to please him, and that 
will make you happy. You have a good try!” 

Mabel considered that she had been making the attempt all her 


100 


LITTLE DAVID 


life and the direct result had been the creation of Little David, 
but she did not mention this to Fammy. She determined to have 
a really good try. She was young and confident—Fammy had seen 
to that—but she made one fatal mistake. She commenced, as has 
already been stated, to study Philip Canning with a view to arriv¬ 
ing at his likes and dislikes—as her father. She ended by studying 
him—as a human being. The judgment of youth is exceedingly 
merciless. 

It was all very pitiful and human—one creature striving to 
grasp what another unwittingly withheld, like a blind man turn¬ 
ing in his darkness towards the light of the sun which he has heard 
is there but cannot see. 

Mabel was annoying. There can be no doubt on that point! 

“I wish,” said Philip Canning, on the second morning after her 
return from Fammy’s, “that you would choose some place other 
than my study to ornament with flowers. I use the vase on my 
desk for pens and pencils—when I can keep them from dis¬ 
appearing.” 

“I thought you liked daffodils,” said Mabel humbly. 

“I do—in the garden,” replied her father, intent on an annoying 
point in a business letter. 

“I’m sorry,” said Mabel in a small voice. 

“What do you say?” He looked up from the letter with a 
frown. “Oh—never mind that! Don’t do it again,” he muttered 
absently, and became once more absorbed. 

As they walked to church, one morning, Philip Canning had 
remarked on the beauty of a bed of daffodils. Mabel did not 
remind him of this. The vase on his desk was cracked, and a pile 
of letters had lain beside it. Water is injurious to letters when 
applied in bulk, and they had to be re-written. Philip Canning 
was annoyed, but he said nothing. Mabel, when she went to 
remove all the flowers from his study, found the desk closed and 
locked. She had never seen it closed before. 

This was not encouraging. The daffodils that had been on the 


LITTLE DAVID WEEPS BITTERLY 


101 


desk lay in the waste-paper basket. This was not encouraging 
either, but Mabel, admonishing herself to patience, went on. 

A few days after this incident young Peter Hemming put in an 
appearance. He has no part in this story, but he happened to 
be the god-child of Philip Canning and regarded by him with a 
species of affection—his father was iron, that to say he had made 
a large fortune out of that commodity. Perhaps this had a little 
to do with the appearance of the son. He was a nice lad, interested 
in sport, but he appeared to be made of some hard substance that 
would not bend. Conversation languished. Mabel, who was 
present, remained silent; but that was customary. Philip Canning, 
in desperation, offered the young man his cigarette case—with no 
cigarettes in it. The young man, awakening for a moment, pro¬ 
duced his own. The two male things smoked. 

Philip Canning felt impelled to make a remark. 

“A most excellent cigarette,” he said, “I have seldom smoked 
with so much enjoyment. Where do you buy them? The brand 
is strange to me.” 

Peter Hemming awoke and remained awake till the time of his 
departure. It appeared that he had a fine taste in tobacco. The 
cigarettes in question were made by a Greek at a small shop in 
Kensington. He had discovered the man by chance. He dis¬ 
coursed learnedly on tobacco. He even appeared to have some 
slight knowledge of the subject. While Philip Canning followed 
him to the door, Mabel fumbled for and found the stub end of her 
father’s cigarette. There was a name and address on it. 

On Sunday afternoons it was the invariable custom of Philip 
Canning to sit in one particular easy chair and think. At least it 
was understood that he was thinking, but he frequently did so with 
his mouth open. On the particular Sunday in question, however, 
his mouth was shut in an exceedingly hard line when Mabel came 
in to administer tea. There was a small table beside the chair, 
and on this reposed a box of cigarettes of the brand smoked by the 
son of the iron gentleman. 


102 


LITTLE DAVID 


“How does this come to be here?” asked Philip Canning, indicat¬ 
ing the box. 

He was a just man and never condemned without giving a cul¬ 
prit a chance of proving innocence. 

“I—I bought them,” faltered Mabel nervously. 

There was an interval of silence during which she looked at him 
appealingly and with a rising colour, and he regarded her with a 
gathering frown. 

“I dislike girls who smoke. Have you contracted the habit?” 

“No,” said Mabel tonelessly. 

“Then why did you buy this?” 

Philip Canning was not a liar. He abominated deceit—business 
matters always excepted. 

“I—I don’t know,” said poor Mabel hopelessly. “I—I just 
bought them because—because-” 

The sight of her father’s face proved too much for her. She 
rose and hurried from the room. Philip Canning carried the box 
to his study and locked it away. The box had been crushed in 
post. Mabel had straightened it out and removed the damaged 
cigarettes. It did not occur to him that they had not been smoked. 
He was annoyed at the imagined deceit, but he spent some time in 
thinking out the matter. The conclusion he arrived at was kindly 
in intention, but his words were exceedingly badly chosen. 

“I have taken charge of the box,” he said at supper. “I want 
you to promise me not to smoke. You are only a child. When 
you become a woman then you can please yourself. Women do 
these things although I, personally, do not approve. Till then I 
must judge what is best for you.” 

His voice was austerely kind, and it was the voice of tolerant 
experience talking to the infant of inexperience. Mabel, who had 
been drooping over her plate attempting to screw her courage up to 
the point of an open confession of her object, sat up, and the line 
of her mouth became suddenly apparent. A fleeting resemblance to 
a long-dead sister whom he had disliked crossed Philip Canning’s 



LITTLE DAVID WEEPS BITTERLY 


103 


mind. The two straight mouths faced each other across the 
table. 

“Well! I am waiting!” said Philip Canning, and his voice had 
hardened. 

“I never want to see a cigarette again,” said Mabel quietly. “I 
promise to respect all your wishes while I am in your house.” 

Her mind was full of bitterness. He had called her a child. 
When she became a woman, forsooth, she could judge for herself! 

There was something to say for Philip Canning in the matter, 
but, unfortunately, there was no one present to* say it. The balance 
remained with Mabel, however, for she went on. Philip Canning 
also went on—existing. 

It was after the Cruxes came to dinner that Mabel unconsciously 
altered her attitude and commenced to study her father as a human 
being. The Cruxes were three in number—a father, a mother, and 
a daughter. Father Cruxe was large, and heavy, and in Parlia¬ 
ment—that is quite enough to say about him. Mother Cruxe was 
an ally of father Cruxe, and father Cruxe’s constituency was 
opposed to the idea of women suffrage. Mother Cruxe was also 
large, with a large voice, and a habit of fixing you with her eye. 
The daughter Cruxe was an elderly spinster who had a grudge 
against everything because she had grown old. She also had a 
secret passion for writing poetry. Since this was known to the 
entire Cruxe family, they all, with one accord, worshipped at the 
shrine of Philip Canning who was a publisher. He had no objection 
to the Cruxes—it was policy to know them. Mabel—to put it 
plainly—hated the whole bunch. She had been forced, on divers 
occasions, to stay in their house as an unwilling guest. 

The dinner passed to the accompaniment of a flow of talk from 
which Mabel was studiously excluded. This did not worry her. 
What did worry her was that the daughter Cruxe regarded her, 
from time to time, with approval. To be approved of by the 
daughter Cruxe was galling to Mabel, acutely conscious of a 
frock over which the one and only girl friend whose friendship 


104 


LITTLE DAVID 


she valued had raised appalled and protesting hands to heaven. 
Philip Canning’s housekeeper had a taste of her own in clothes, 
and strong ideas on what a young girl should not wear. Mabel 
looked like a child of sixteen. 

The daughter Cruxe—she would have sold her soul to appear 
ten years younger—knowing Mabel’s age, was secretly infuriated. 
She had sufficient perception to see that Mabel was humiliated by 
her own appearance. In the pleasing way of womenkind that 
scratch after the fashion of a cat’s velvet-clad claw, she insisted on 
the girl sitting on a stool before the fire, once the drawing-room 
was reached; and made a great fuss of her—as if she were an 
infant of no intelligence. Mabel bore with this in silence. When 
the men came in from their wine, then she intended to escape. 
She did, but not for long. 

A half-circle was formed round the fire—this invariably 
happened when guests were present—while Mabel sat in the back¬ 
ground. In the past she had been wont to sit quiet and listen, or 
sit quiet and dream—now she watched her father. The father 
Cruxe, having an eye to his daughter’s poetical outbursts, had 
spent all the morning memorising a treatise on electricity. He 
commenced and sustained a conversation that vividly interested and 
somewhat surprised his host. The good man’s mind was capable of 
containing facts, but—through long Parliamentary experience, no 
doubt—they became mixed and jumbled. The poetic soul of the 
daughter Cruxe, unconscious of the noble object of her sire’s efforts, 
grew restive. She boiled over—on Mabel. 

“Come and sit by the fire, dear child,” she said sweetly. “You 
are quite out in the cold!” 

“Thank you,” said Mabel shortly. “I am very comfortable here.” 

The sharp tone of her voice reached Philip Canning’s ear. The 
resigned, suffering expression of the daughter Cruxe—as of one 
who, attempting to be kind, had been rudely rebuffed—met his 
eye. He turned—in the middle of an exceedingly involved state¬ 
ment on the subject of dynamos—to look at Mabel, and saw her 


LITTLE DAVID WEEPS BITTERLY 


105 


flushed and defiant. His voice was harsh, for he was both annoyed 
and indignant. His daughter had no business to be rude to a 
guest in her father’s house! 

“Mabel! Come and sit by the fire,” he said peremptorily. 

Mabel came and sat on the stool, awkwardly, in obvious humilia¬ 
tion; and at the same time Philip Canning’s daughter went—well 
I cannot say just where she went, but it was a great distance away 
from him. All her life, so far, she had been standing beside him, 
hoping, nay praying even—a fact although no one, not even 
Fammy, knew of it—that he might perceive she was there. Now 
she stood afar off. Distance is said to lend enchantment. Possibly 
it does. On the other hand when you are very near a person you 
fail to see them properly. 

The next morning Mabel perceived that her father was growing 
bald; that his teeth required attention; that he had an awkward and 
unpleasant habit of contorting his face in the effort of concentra¬ 
tion; that he did everything with an unnatural precision and always 
in the same fashion; and that he was the tallest and thinnest man 
'she had even seen or imagined. Her eyes dwelt the longest on his 
mouth—it was one thin, hard, straight line. She sighed. Philip 
Canning would have been startled if he could have read the 
thoughts in the young head opposite him. He did think of Mabel, 
but it was only a passing thought that he was being kind in 
forbearing to say anything on the subject of her behaviour 
over-night. 

It was very sad. Yes, it was uncommonly sad—when you come 
to think of how short life is! 

Mabel, by the way, was hurt and quivering to the core. 

“I must do something,” she said, in the privacy of her room, but 
what it was that she must do, she failed to fathom. 

What she did do was this. She locked the door, unlocked a 
drawer, drew out the pyjamas worn by Little David, and, seating 
herself on a chair, placed the garments on her knee. She sat very 
still for a long time—thinking. Presently she spoke aloud. 


106 


LITTLE DAVID 


“He took me seriously,” she said. “He is the first person who 
has ever done that. He would listen to what I had to say.” 

She was silent again for a space, and then: 

“If I had not promised Fammy!” 

She sighed. It did not occur to the poor child that very few 
people ever bother to keep a promise—unless it suits them to do so. 
She replaced the pyjamas, but she drew out the clothes of Little 
David. There were quite a number of them, too, clothes that John 
Henry had never seen. 

“If Emma had not left!” 

Emma had been a young housemaid dismissed by Philip Canning 
for undue familiarity with his daughter. He—good man—had not 
the remotest suspicion of the extent of the said familiarity. 

“If only I were Little David!” 

This was said very fiercely, but there was a suspicion of coming 
tears in the eyes and the soft lips had commenced to tremble. 

“I am net a child. I will not cry!” 

The fierceness of this utterance was unparalleled. She sat very 
tense, but her features worked into curious grimaces. Quite sud¬ 
denly she clasped the clothes of Little David, kissed them with 
passion, and, rising and locking them away, hurried from the room. 

In the library she seated herself at the desk and commenced to 
write a long letter. She was still writing when the gong sounded 
for lunch. She paid no attention to the sound, but went on. No 
one came to look for her, so it did not matter. The letter com¬ 
menced: “Dearest Sheila,” and ended: Yours ever, Mabel.” 
There were pages of it, and the writing was small. In its way it 
was quite a human document—the overflow of a child’s heart, sick 
with the desire for affection, desperate for a word of sympathy and 
encouragement. A silly document, doubtless, but very real to the 
writer. 

“She will think me a fool and laugh,” muttered Mabel, sitting 
back from her labours. “I cannot help it. I had to tell someone 
—or cry; and that I refuse to do.” 


LITTLE DAVID WEEPS BITTERLY 


107 


She did, however, but that was later on—after dinner, to be 
exact, and it was entirely her own fault. She behaved foolishly. 
The writing of the letter had eased her mind. She had spent the 
afternoon thinking about her father, recalling the wise words of 
Pammy, and she spoke to him as the dessert was laid on the table. 
A most unwise action, because Philip Canning was lost in thought 
and obviously worried. 

“Father!’’ she said and Lesitated. Then the Vords came ‘with 
a rush. “I want to ask you. I have wanted to ask you for a long 
time now. Have you ever thought that-” 

“No doubt I have,” he interrupted testily, grasping the last few 
words and failing entirely to hear the appeal of the first. “I have 
a great deal to think about, and an important decision to make 
before morning. I am going up to town to-morrow. I shall be 
back in a few days. If you want to tell, or ask me anything, do so 
when I return.” 

He pushed back his chair and rose austerely forbearing. 

’■“Business must come first,” he said. “Good-night!” 

The maid, entering to clear the table, was astonished to find her 
young mistress seated there with her head resting on her hands. 
Mabel rose at once and hurried away without a word, so the maid 
commenced to remove the dishes. She was more astonished still 
to find that Mabel’s napkin was missing. She searched, 
and searched, but failed to find the elusive article. She 
commented on the fact to the cook, and wondered where it 
had gone. The cook, who was fat and imaginative, held the 
opinion that the pixies had snatched it in an attempt to carry 
Mabel away to a place where some one would make a fuss 
of her. The truth of the matter was quite simple. Mabel 
had not wished the maid to find that napkin because, well, it 
was wet! 

There were no tears in her eyes, however, as she climbed into 
bed, and the line of her mouth was very straight—rather like 
Philip Canning’s own mouth, in fact. There was no doubt or 



108 


LITTLE DAVID 


uncertainty in her mind either, and although her words were few 
and quietly uttered, they expressed an infinity of meaning. 

“If I had any place to go to where he could not find me, I would 
leave this house to-night.” 

Mabel, being a truthful child, there is no reason to doubt that 
she would have done so. 

She lay very still in bed for a time, and then her voice came once 
more, only now it shook and the words were barely audible. 

“Little David might find a place to go to, but there is no place 
for me. I—must—stay—here!” 

She fell asleep on the thought. 


CHAPTER X 


THE ARRIVAL OF JOHN HENRY MILLMAN AT THE RED HOUSE 

Veronica, you will remember, had determined to act. She did. 
She commenced operations at the very first opportunity and 
examined everything in John Henry’s room. She even read his 
old manuscripts, but the result of her efforts was disappointing. 
She could find nothing to give her the faintest clue as to how he was 
making money, yet she discovered a considerable sum. Notes, not 
one pound notes, but clean, white, five pound notes, reposed in the 
cracked tea-pot on the mantel-shelf. Veronica was more than per¬ 
turbed. She grew to dread the sound of the front-door bell for 
fear the police had come for him. She knew that he had no income, 
no rich friends or relations, and she knew likewise that money can¬ 
not be got for nothing. It would have been quite different if 
John Henry had been capable of earning a living; but then, 
Veronica was assured he was not. 

His appearance and manners did not lessen her distress. He 
was moody, unsettled, restless, and he seemed unable to write. 
There appeared to be something preying on his mind. He was 
apt to leave the house suddenly, for no apparent purpose or 
reason, and walk along the streets at a rapid pace as if he were 
attempting to escape from himself. Veronica had followed on 
several of these occasions and narrowly escaped detection, for he 
invariably retraced his steps abruptly and in the same sudden 
fashion. She could make nothing of it, and she was filled with 
foreboding. 

He continued to spend money recklessly—he had something 
cold but substantial for supper every night and, although the hens 
had grown reserved, the morning egg was still in evidence. 

109 


110 


LITTLE DAVID 


Veronica augured the worst from this. She was distraught. 
She might, of course, have asked John Henry how he had made the 
money, and what it was that worried him; but the thought never 
entered her head. Veronica was a humble soul. She seldom 
asked questions. She would as soon have thought of addressing 
a petition to the Lord Chancellor, or stopping a mounted police¬ 
man—one of those magnificient creatures with white gloves and 
a stern air of being on important business—to ask the time, as 
obtrude herself into John Henry’s private affairs. She worried, 
and watched, and examined each new person who crossed the 
doorstep with a searching scrutiny, and was filled with an over¬ 
whelming desire to do something for John Henry. 

If Veronica had asked him, John Henry might have found it 
difficult to reply. He was worried over his book. He was worried 
about Little David. He was worried about the Three Mighty 
Beings of Mead House, for he had not only missed an appoint¬ 
ment with them but had subsequently—through sheer nerves— 
committed other and strange misdemeanours in their presence. 
John Henry believed that they had grown to dislike the sight of 
him and his book, and this was disconcerting. The point which 
worried him the most, however, was one he failed to understand; 
but it was there for all that. He was a very simple soul—John 
Henry Millman, and there was one person he seldom considered 
or thought about, and that person was himself. From the day 
when he had found Little David in the street, he also appeared to 
have found a new self that demanded many things which were 
impossible, absurd, and even at times indecent. When John 
Henry walked out of the house in great haste, he was, in truth, 
trying to get away from himself. 

The Dainty Brute might have partly solved this problem in 
the mind of John Henry, but the Dainty Brute had not done so. 
He had kept the fact of Little David’s sex to himself, being a 
man of some humour and also, in many respects, a philosopher. 
He believed that Mabel Canning’s people knew about her escapade 


THE RED HOUSE 


111 


and also about himself, and he mourned over a lost and promising 
opportunity of blackmail; but he appreciated the fact of his own 
escape from a possible detection in the office of Canning and 
Canning. 

He was far from imagining that he had been of immense use 
to John Henry, and this was only natural since John Henry, the 
Three Mighty Beings, indeed no one, suspected it at the time. 
He was, however, for the Three Mighty Beings, considering the 
amazing fact of John Henry’s callous behaviour towards them 
on the day when he had fled from the office, pondering on his 
subsequent actions in their presence, came to the astounding con¬ 
clusion that he, John Henry, was dissatisfied with them. The 
thought, at first, made them furious, but afterwards, as John 
Henry’s work took shape and appeared in print and the said 
book drew words of commendation from divers quarters, the 
Three Mighty Beings became thoughtful, and—not to put too fine 
a point on it—determined to run no chance of losing the possibil¬ 
ities of profit within their grasp. 

This was the reason for Philip Canning’s journey to London; 
and the result of a long conference in the room of harrowing 
memories—at which a third and pleasant-faced gentleman as¬ 
sisted—was a letter addressed to John Henry, enclosing a second 
letter also addressed to him; and the contents of these two letters 
amazed John Henry exceedingly. 

The first letter was precise and business-like. It came from 
Canning and Canning and it said: 

“Dear Mr. Millman,—We have received a communication from 
Mr. George Cornwall on the subject of your book. Mr. Cornwall, 
who has had our utmost confidence for years, is of the opinion that 
your story lends itself admirably to being dramatized. He is 
himself a dramatist and critic of great literary worth, and we are 
only too pleased to fall in with his suggestion that you should 
meet and discuss the matter with him. In this you need feel no 
obligation to Mr. Cornwall, for he acts on our behalf.” 


112 


LITTLE DAVID 


This letter, by the way, was signed by Philip Canning himself. 
An unparalleled circumstance! 

The second letter was also short, but it was far from business¬ 
like. It was dated at the Red House, Litshot, signed Sheila 
Cornwall, and it said: 

“Dear Mr. Millman,—Father has just telephoned to ask Muggie 
to write, inviting you down for a few days. Muggie does not 
know anything about you because father forgot to tell her and she 
is very bad on the ’phone—so she has deputed the task to me. 
We have both read your book and shall be delighted to see you 
when you arrive, but please do not come till after Thursday as 
I am expecting a friend to be with us till then. I suppose you 
have seen father and arranged everything, so just send us a wire 
of the day and time of your arrival.” 

The envelope of this second letter was addressed to “John 
Henry Millman, Esqr., c/o Canning and Canning, Publishers, 
London,” otherwise John Henry might have been led to believe 
that it was intended for some other Mr. Millman. As it was the 
reading of it left him in a species of dazed and wondering trance, 
and in this condition Veronica found him with a letter in either 
hand. 

Veronica thought to herself: “It has come at last!” and her 
heart gave a sudden jump, but she merely said: “Cornwall is here, 
Mr. John.” 

“What!” said John Henry, starting and staring about as if 
some presence were concealed in the room. 

Veronica’s heart gave a second jump, but she said: “Cornwall’s 
coals, Mr. John; your supply is almost out.” 

John Henry appeared to be relieved. 

“Tell him to bring in a bag,” he said. 

John Henry’s coal inhabited a large, disguised packing-case in 
a far corner of the room. The coal-man, having emptied a sack 
thereinto, withdrew; and Veronica, having departed for a cloth, 
returned to remove the dust caused by the upheaval. She dusted, 


THE RED HOUSE 


113 


and as she dusted she watched John Henry sitting in his chair, 
staring with great eyes at the two letters. Veronica was certain 
that he was on the brink of dire and devastating trouble. 

“What day is this, Veronica ?” he asked suddenly. 

“Tuesday, Mr. John,” said Veronica. 

“Tuesday,” repeated John Henry, staring at the second letter 
as if it held some dire fascination for him. “Tuesday!” 

He rose suddenly and left the room. Veronica, following, was 
in time to see him pass rapidly down the street. She returned 
to his room, distracted, wondering what on earth she could do. 
She sat on her own particular chair, held her head in her hands, 
and thought; but the result of her thoughts was fruitless. John 
Henry almost caught her in this attitude when he reappeared 
with a telegraph form in his hand desirous of obtaining two things 
that had escaped his memory—his hat and a shilling to pay for the 
wire. 

“I’m going away for a few days on Friday,” he said to Veronica. 

Veronica, in the extremity of her distress, ventured to ask a 
question. 

“Where are you going?” she exclaimed fearfully, then scared 
at her own temerity she added: “For fear any one might call!” 

“No one will—” commenced John Henry, and then stopped 
short, not having yet been able to abandon the hope that, some 
day, Little David might put in an appearance. “It is not likely 
that any one will call,” he amended, “but I shall give you my 
address, and if any letters come you can send them on.” 

The thought of going to the Red House at Litshot, of meeting 
the dramatist, his daughter called Sheila, and some other relative 
called Muggie, all of whom appeared to be interested in his book, 
made John Henry quail and quiver; but Canning and Canning 
appeared to want it, so he wrote a telegram announcing his arrival 
on Friday afternoon, and he quite forgot to say by what train he 
would arrive. It did not occur to him that, as he had never heard 
of Litshot, it might be well to find out where it was. All that 


114 


LITTLE DAVID 


occupied John Henry’s mind was the certainty that if he did not 
telegraph at once and say he was coming, he would never go at 
all. The prospect scared him to death. He sent off the wire and 
returned home in a sad state of discomfiture greatly increased by 
the sharp remarks of the young lady in the post office on the sub¬ 
ject of his name which he had forgotten to state. 

The telegram reached the Red House at Litshot that same 
afternoon. John Henry had addressed it to “Miss Sheila Corn¬ 
wall,” and it was handed to that young woman at the very moment 
when she had settled herself in comfort to listen to the story of 
her friend—Mabel Canning. Sheila—she was young, pretty, 
daintily dressed, full of life, and happy—glanced at the telegram 
and slipped it unopened behind the clock on the mantel-shelf. 

“That will be from one of the two Georges,” she remarked. “I 
drove them both up to London, for a few days, because you were 
coming over and I wanted to hear everything without being dis¬ 
turbed. It can wait. Go on, my dear child. I am devoured with 
curiosity.” 

The two Georges, it may be remarked in passing, were the 
father of Sheila and his secretary, one George Dallas by name, 
a youth of four and twenty, the bastard son of an old friend, 
brought up by the paternal Cornwall from infancy. It should also 
be noted that Sheila was the senior of Mabel by fully eighteen 
months in point of actual time, years—according to herself—in 
point of experience, and several centuries—according to Mabel— 
in worldly wisdom, knowledge of dress, and the possession of 
clothes. She was the one girl friend for whom Mabel had both 
affection and respect. They both wanted a mother. Sheila owned 
an aunt. Mabel was governed by a housekeeper. The father of 
Sheila was poor, and always would be poor. The father of Mabel 
was rich, and grew richer every year. The father of Sheila stood 
in amused awe of what she might do next. The father of Mabel— 
well, you know about him. It was natural that the two girls 
should be fast friends, drawn together by respect on the one side, 


THE RED HOUSE 


115 


and pity on the other. Philip Canning had been willing for his 
child to be friendly with the daughter of his old school friend, and 
his old school friend had encouraged his daughter to be kind to 
the child he pitied. 

Mabel appeared to find it difficult to go on. She grew red in 
the face and she plucked the front of her dress with her fingers. 

“I told you everything in my letter,” she said. 

“Of course you did—everything except what I wanted to know. 
You started by reminding me of the dance at school when you 
dressed up as a boy and took us all in. Then you went on to 
the sorrows of Emma the maid who had no boy to take her out. 
You explained how you went out with her for a joke and, embold¬ 
ened by success, continued the practice. You described all that 
at length and went into the details of how you secured your 
outfit—most indelicate I call it. To think of a quiet little mouse 
like you doing such a thing! I can scarcely credit it!” 

Sheila regarded her friend in puzzled wonderment, whereat 
Mabel looked up, and although her cheeks were flaming, the 
honest expression of her eyes disarmed any possible censure. 

“If you had been left alone and disregarded as I have been,” 
she said quietly, “you would have been glad to do anything.” 

Sheila bent forward on a sudden impulse and hugged the 
slender figure, kissing Mabel on the lips with vigour. 

“I shall have to drag it out of you bit by bit,” she said. “You 
never did speak of yourself. I always do all the talking. Begin 
where your letter commences to be vague—after Emma was dis¬ 
missed.” 

“Emma and I went out together for about three months. We 
used to go to the skating rink in the town, and we went to a dance 
once or twice. I was supposed to be with Fammy on these occa¬ 
sions, and as Emma had a sister near by, it was quite simple. I 
became accustomed to being dressed in boy’s clothes, but when 
Emma was dismissed I did not go out alone. It would have been 
different. I liked Emma, and she liked me. Father”— a sudden 


116 


LITTLE DAVID 


hardness came over Mabel's face—“refused to give Emma a char¬ 
acter, and it was long before she found a situation. She did 
eventually—in London. She wrote to me once or twice, and then 
one day I received a long letter from her asking me to come up 
to London for a couple of days. Her people were away, the cook 
was away, there was no one in the house but herself and the other 
housemaid—a nice girl who knew all about our adventures together. 
Emma was to meet me at the station. I was to come dressed as 
a boy.” 

Mabel was silent for a few moments in deep thought. 

“Poor Emma,” she said, “she was almost crazed till she 
received my telegram.” 

“Mabel Canning, go on, and never mind Emma,” said Sheila. 
“You are the most irritating creature I know!” 

“I went and Emma met me at the station. There is no necessity 
to tell you what we did, for we merely enjoyed ourselves. I dis¬ 
liked the other housemaid at first sight, and I was not mistaken. 
Emma and I went out together the first night, for we could not 
leave the house empty—it was large and full of valuables. The 
next afternoon the other girl and I went out. I did not wish to 
go with her, but I did not like to refuse. We did not return. 
She took me to the Dainty Brute.” 

Mabel paused and shuddered violently. 

“She was not a housemaid at all. She was a thief and a bad 
woman. It was all an arranged plan, and they had secured me 
as an added piece of booty. I guessed it when I looked round the 
room where she left me alone. It was supposed to be her mother’s 
flat. I tried to get out, but the door was locked. I screamed and 
she came and threatened to kill me if I were not silent. Then the 
Dainty Brute arrived with two other girls.” 

Mabel grew white and her face became twisted into an expression 
of fear and repulsion. 

“He tried to kiss me!” she gasped. 

“What did you do?” 


THE RED HOUSE 


117 


“I fought. I did not know that I could fight before, but it 
appears I can. I bit his ear and he cried out at the pain and 
flung me away. He stood, holding a handkerchief to his head, 
but he made no attempt to kiss me again. The girls looked on 
and roared with laughter. He was angry, but not with me. I 
seemed to amuse and please him. 

“They argued over what was to be done and I grew sick listen¬ 
ing to their talk. The Dainty Brute wanted to keep me. He did 
not say so, but he said that I would be worth more to them if 
they kept me altogether. The girl, who had played the part of 
housemaid, objected, and accused the Dainty Brute of—of want¬ 
ing me for himself. She was, I think, in love with him, and he 
seemed afraid of her. They argued for a long time and then they 
reached a decision. 

“They told me that I must write to father, tell him that I had 
been kidnapped, and ask for a large sum of money to be sent to 
an address they gave. This was to be forwarded with a second 
letter, which I would write to their dictation, explaining what 
would happen if he refused, or attempted to take any measure to 
find me. 

“You know father. I would have died rather than let him 
find me there, or see me dressed as a boy. I was terrified, but 
I refused. I told them that Emma would communicate with the 
police when she found that I did not return. It was a foolish 
thing to say, for the Dainty Brute jumped at the chance of getting 
the girl who had been the housemaid out of the way. He was 
cautious, however, and did not make much of it, merely saying 
that Emma’s suspicions might be allayed with advantage. The 
girl could go out presently, telephone to her, and explain that I 
was going straight to the station. I had to be home that night 
so the tale would be feasible.” 

“They gave me paper and ink and left me alone for an hour. I 
examined the room, trying to find a means of escape, but there 
were none. The one window was shuttered, barred, and padlocked. 


118 


LITTLE DAVID 


The carpet was thick and would muffle any sound. They came 
back and I had written nothing. I said that I would not write, 
and the girl wanted to force me to do so, but the Dainty Brute 
intervened and suggested leaving me alone till I came to my 
senses. They left the room and I could hear an argument going 
on in the passage between the girl and the man. He was trying to 
convince her that he had no interest in me apart from money, 
and I think he succeeded; but she would not let him remain 
behind. They went out together.” 

Mabel paused and glanced at her friend with gratitude. 

“I was afraid you would laugh and call me a fool,” she said 
humbly. “That is why I was unwilling to speak.” 

Sheila made no response other than a second and more vigorous 
hug added to an exhortation to continue. 

“It seemed to me that I was left alone in that room for days. 
There was no method of telling the time, for there was no light 
except the light of the lamps, and they had taken everything from 
me. There was a fire and a large bucket of coal, and I kept 
stoking the fire for no obvious reason. I was dazed and did not 
know what to think or do. I could hear voices in the adjoining 
rooms, but I was too scared to cry out. There were men . . . 

it was a horrible place. 

“They returned. The girl was furious when she found that I 
had not written. She told me that she had telephoned to Emma, 
that Emma, without giving her a chance to speak, had begged her 
to take me straight to the station because, on going over the 
house, she had missed many valuables and was unwilling to 
notify the police till I had gone. Poor Emma was doing her 
best for me, but it was not comforting at the moment. I refused 
to write a single word. They tried threats—all sorts of threats— 
and the girl struck me; but I remained firm. They went to the 
door and talked in whispers, and I knew that the man was out¬ 
lining a plan. The girl came back and said that they would 
leave me till morning, and if I had not written by then I would 


THE RED HOUSE 


119 


be sorry for it. I was not afraid of her, but I was afraid of the 
man, for I felt certain that he would return by himself. 

“He did, but I was prepared for him. You remember I had 
built up the fire. Well, after they left I was wondering in a 
frenzied fashion what I could do, and I fell to poking the fire. 
That gave me an idea. The poker was large and heavy. I buried 
M deep in the hot coals and kept it there. Then I drew a stool 
up to the hearth and sat—waiting. The noise of talk and 
laughter—horrid laughter—went on for ages, and then it died 
down and the place was still. All this time I had been straining 
to hear the steps of the Dainty Brute, and every time some one 
passed the door I thought he was coming. I was half mad with 
terror, but I kept repeating to myself what I must do. Then an 
appalling thing happened. The light went out. The room was 
in darkness except for the glow of the fire. He—I knew he had 
done it—had turned off the light at the main switch. Then I 
knew that I would not have to wait long. 

“Presently I heard a creaking in the passage and the door 
opened. He came in and spoke in a whisper. I could see him 
quite distinctly, for he was in his night attire. He asked me to 
keep quiet, promised to leave the door unlocked so that I could 
escape, said he would not make any trouble afterwards, swore to 
all this so long as I would talk quietly with him for a little. I 
did not answer and he came nearer. He came quite close and then 
I pulled out the poker and thrust it at his legs. I barely touched 
him, for he leapt back, but it must have hurt badly, for he swore, 
and cursed, and danced, but all very quietly. He had no wish 
to waken the others. 

“He made a second attempt to approach me, but I said that 
if he came nearer I would burn his eyes out. I would, too. You 
have no idea how fierce I was. I would not have believed it 
myself. I suppose I was half mad with fear. He grew annoyed, 
and scared, and went away cursing and using the most terrible 
expressions. I was left alone. I did not sleep. I could not 


120 


LITTLE DAVID 


have slept for the fire was dying down, and there were no more 
coals! You have no idea of what it was like.” 

“My dear,” said Sheila, “I have a better understanding of the 
position than you have yourself. It was too dreadful for words.” 

“I must have fallen into a doze, for I remember thinking that 
the fire was black out, and then I found myself standing in terror 
with the poker in my hands. There was a row going on in the 
next room. I could hear the voice of the girl, shrill with anger. 
The light went on, and, while I was blinking in the sudden glare, 
the door opened and the girl looked in. ‘Come in here, you damned 
liar,’ she shouted. ‘She has the poker still in her hands!’ She 
had been asking the Dainty Brute for an explanation of the burn 
on his leg. 

“The Dainty Brute came in and glared at me sullenly. ‘I swear 
that I have not touched her,’ he said. ‘I did not have a chance. 
I have no wish to touch her. She has been more trouble than she 
is worth.’ All this time I stood grasping the poker and staring 
at them in a dazed, stupid fashion. ‘Will you leave her to me?’ 
asked the girl, and he gave his consent willingly, adding a few 
words to the effect that he wished he had never set eyes on me. 

The girl snatched the poker from my hand and thrust me back 
into a chair. She drew up the table and set paper before me. ‘I 
give you ten minutes to write,’ she said and swept out of the room, 
driving the Dainty Brute before her. 

“She was in a fury of jealousy and, I think, would have been 
disappointed if I had written. She was back again under the 
time, and when she found that I had done nothing, she called on 
the Dainty Brute. He came, and when I saw a cane in his hand 
I cowered back in the chair and shivered. To do him justice I 
think it was distasteful and he struck the chair as often as he struck 
me, but he had no choice. ‘Leave her face alone,’ said the girl. ‘It 
will be worth money to us.’ I cried out for mercy, but she merely 
laughed, and when the man commenced to stop, she snatched the 
cane from him and plied it herself. It was then that I commenced 


THE RED HOUSE 


121 


to suffer, but I preferred to be beaten to the thought of facing 
father. I said so, and I also said that if they made any attempt 
to approach him, I would refuse to go home. They might kill me 
if they pleased. 

“They left me alone after that for hours, or it may have been 
but a short time. I do not know. I was demented and quite 
incapable of judging. Then the girl came back and made me 
straighten my attire* and wipe my face. She said that they were 
going to take me to a house where I would receive a lot of atten¬ 
tion—from men. I fell on my knees and begged for mercy, but 
she merely struck me across the face. I have never seen any one 
so possessed with fury. I do not wonder that the Dainty Brute 
was afraid. 

“They half led, half carried me down to a closed car, thrust 
me in, and followed themselves. We sat on the back seat. I 
between them, each holding an arm. I had given myself up for 
lost when the car stopped suddenly, the door opened, and a police¬ 
man looked in. Instinctively they loosened their grasp. I took 
advantage of the instance and was out of the other door, and away, 
dodging under the wheels of the traffic. The policeman had 
opened the door to ask where the car was going. The road was 
up, and the chauffeur—fortunately for me—had fallen foul of 
the driver of a lorry. 

“I had no idea where I was, but I ran hard and gained a quiet 
street, and there the Dainty Brute overtook me. He held me by 
the scruff of the neck, but I screamed and struggled, and a 
crowd gathered. To look at he seems a gentlemen of means. He 
spoke to the crowd and no one interfered. I was too scared and 
dazed to say anything, although I begged to be freed in a frenzied 
fashion, and if it had not been for a gentleman who stopped right 
in front of me, I might have been lost forever.” 

“Yes!” said Sheila expectantly. 

“That is all,” said Mabel. “There is nothing more to telL 
The gentleman took me to Fammy and here I am.” 


122 


LITTLE DAVID 


Sheila appeared to be both puzzled and unsatisfied. She 
sat frowning at Mabel in a thoughtful fashion, and that 
young person—she looked exceedingly prim by the way—seemed 
slightly agitated; the result, no doubt, of the recounting of her 
trials. 

“Surely there is more to tell,” said Sheila. “What happened to 
Emma the maid for example ?” 

Mabel became a picture of penitence. 

“I sent her a telegram the next day. It was terrible, but I 
forgot about her entirely till early the next morning. After 
speaking to the girl, she informed the police of the theft. They 
came and that kept her busy for a time, but, when the girl did 
not return, then Emma grew alarmed about me. She almost went 
crazy wondering if I were safe. She had said nothing to the 
police about me, and so her tongue was tied. It was very for¬ 
tunate that it was. No one blamed her for the theft—luckily for 
herself.” 

“You say that this man took you to Fammy’s! How did he 
take you there, and what did he say when he discovered you were 
a girl?” 

“He did not say anything,” said Mabel. “He saw that I was 
in trouble—scared to death, and took me to—as he imagined— 
my people. He was a nice man.” 

“He must have been,” said Sheila, still exceedingly puzzled. 
“Do you mean to say that he just walked away with you under 
his arm—like a parcel, for example?” 

“We went in a cab to Paddington and then on to—to Fammy’s,” 
said Mabel somewhat hurriedly. “I was completely unnerved, 
as you might imagine, and frightened of everything.” 

“You were lucky to find a man who would act like that!” 

“I was,” said Mabel with fervour. “I told him nothing.” 

“What was he like? Was he old, or middle-aged?” pursued 
Sheila. 

“He was not so old as father,” said Mabel with reserve, “and 


THE RED HOUSE 


123 


how can 1 tell you what he was like? He was a man. I was too 
much upset to think coherently about anything.” 

Sheila arose suddenly and seemed to discard thoughts that dis¬ 
turbed her. She clasped Mabel in her arms with affection, but 
she shook her vigorously at the same time. 

“You poor child!” she said. “No wonder you had to tell some¬ 
one, and no wonder you did not explain the matter in detail to 
Fammy. She would have felt impelled to throw out dark hints 
to your father. You are more than fortunate to be safe and well, 
and yourself with no mishaps. You will never want to go out as 
a boy again—that is one excellent result.” 

“Never!” said Mabel with emphasis. “At least—no, not ever!” 

The puzzled frown returned to the face of Sheila, and she 
seemed about to ask a question. Muggie—she was a widowed 
sister of George Cornwall and her name was Alice Muggins— 
entering at this moment to hurry the girls in to dinner, Sheila 
remained silent. She appeared to be thinking, however, and the 
result of her thoughts produced a question which she put to Mabel 
while her aunt was busy with the joint of beef. 

“When you left London was it morning or afternoon?” 

“Early in the evening,” said Mabel, without pausing to think. 

After dinner Sheila consulted a time-table. Now to 
reach Crompton where Fammy lived, it is necessary to leave 
London before two o’clock—that is if the entire journey is to be 
performed by train. Buses ply between Tipping Horley, Litshot, 
and Crompton; but an early evening train from London 
would arrive at Tipping Horley long after the last bus had 
left. 

Sheila continued to think, so much so in fact that John Henry’s 
telegram lay behind the clock in the sitting-room entirely forgotten. 
She was still thinking as she sat up in bed and watched Mabel 
slowly commencing to undress—the two girls shared the same 
room, and her thoughts appeared to disturb her. She shook 
them off, however, and she saw how pensive and sad Mabel’s 


124 


LITTLE DAVID 


expression was; and, when she had done that completely, she 
remembered about the telegram. 

“I have forgotten the wire,” she said. “Run down and bring 
it up like a dear girl. You are still fairly decent in point of 
dress.” 

Mabel did so. 

“Read it out to me,” said Sheila, nestling luxuriously in the 
bed-clothes. “I hope it is nothing important.” 

Mabel read: “Miss Sheila Cornwall, Red House, Litshot. Many 
thanks. Shall arrive Friday afternoon.” 

Mabel said: “OhI What is he coming here for?” and sat 
down suddenly on the foot of Sheila’s bed while her face grew 
dead white. 

Sheila sat up and snatched the telegram from her hand. 

“John Henry Millman!” she said. “So he is coming. Do you 
know him?” 

“That is the man who took me from the Dainty Brute,” said 
Mabel, and her face became violently red. 

Sheila leapt out of bed and shook her friend with energy. 

“You little wretch,” she said. “You have not told me all your 
story. She was so frightened, forsooth, that she was unable to 
observe the man, but she recognises his name! Go on, miss! Tell 
the John Henry Millman part, or I shall shake it out of you.” 

“Let me get into bed first of all,” said Mabel diffidently, as she 
stood a slender white figure with a flaming face. 

Sheila groaned. 

“If it is necessary—by all means,” she said icily. 

Mabel crept into bed and commenced to tell the John Henry 
Millman part of her story. They were still talking about it when 
the cocks commenced to crow, and Sheila—she was a kind-hearted 
little soul—held Mabel in her arms. Mabel, I might venture to 
state without straying far from the truth, had wept a few odd 
tears after the telling of the tale. Sheila, while being kind-hearted, 
was also exceedingly feminine. This was clearly indicated by a 


THE RED HOUSE 


125 


remark she uttered after they had both composed themselves to 
sleep. 

“She never wants to be Little David again,” she said solemly. 
“Never—oh no, not ever!” 

Mabel made no direct reply to this remark, but a long time 
afterwards she said: 

“Don’t be a beast, Sheila. Your father has always loved you, 
and so have George and your aunt. I have had no one but Fammy, 
and she is far away.” 

Sheila snored in a distinct but delicate fashion. She was having 
her revenge for Mabel’s reservation in the matter of the John 
Henry Millman part of the story. She continued her revenge 
during the earlier part of the succeeding morning, but by noon it 
showed signs of lessening, and by the early afternoon it 
had entirely disappeared. She was exceedingly curious as to what 
manner of man John Henry Millman might be, and her curiosity 
was not satisfied by the descriptions she had received overnight. 
Mabel, who had arisen from bed pale and contrite and con¬ 
tinued in this state all day, stealing appealing glances from time 
to time at the face of her friend, stood by the window of the 
sitting-room, gazing sadly into the garden. Sheila grasped her 
from behind, whirled her round, kissed her, and plumped her 
down on the sofa. 

“Tell me what he is like, you great baby!” she commanded. 

“He is not so tall as George,” said Mabel, “but he is not short. 
He is very strong—stronger than George, of that I am certain. He 
has a very beautiful face but he is not good-looking. What I mean 
is his eyes look at you very nicely, and when he smiles he seems 
to wrap you round in a rug—no, I do not mean that. I mean-” 

Sheila interrupted. 

“Mad!” she said. “Stark, staring, mad! The girl is raving! 
Stronger than George, forsooth! A beautiful face but not good- 
looking! A man who can wrap up a girl in a rug by looking at 
her with his eyes! The girl is a lunatic!” 


126 


LITTLE DAVID 


“You know what I mean,” said Mabel diffidently. 

“I do,” said Sheila nodding. “You mean that you have fallen 
head over heels in love with the man.” 

“I have not,” said Mabel with conviction in her voice. “I most 
certainly have not. I have no wish to be in love with any man. I 
have never been in love and-” 

“Then you ought to have done so, and as you usually do what 
is expected of you, you have,” said Sheila with unanswerable logic. 

“No,” repeated Mabel, “I have not done that, but I like him 
very much. I felt then, and I feel now, that I could go up to him 
and tell him anything and he would understand and ask no ques¬ 
tions. I would just speak and he would listen and tell me what 
to do.” 

“She is not in love with him, oh no I” said Sheila in tones of 
exasperation. 

“I am not” said Mabel, and she stamped her foot on the floor. 

“Do you want to see him again?” 

“I do—most decidedly.” 

“As Mabel Canning?” 

“Oh no!” said Mabel in great distress. 

“As Little David?” 

“Oh—no,” said Mabel in a hesitating fashion. 

Sheila groaned. 

“You had better stay on with us over the week-end,” she said. 
“It will be better for you to meet him here than in your father’s 
house.” 

Mabel arose in great excitement. 

“Does father know him also?” she asked. “He must not see me 
there!” 

“My dear child, do you mean to tell me that you do not know 
what he is? He writes books—charming books—and your father 
is publishing one of them. He thinks no end of Millman’s work— 
from the point of view of profit, and he will assuredly ask him to 
his house one of these fine days. He has asked my father to have 


& 



THE RED HOUSE 


127 


him here with the intention of chaining him to his publishing firm. 
Father is going to advise on a dramatization of his story.” 

Mabel appeared to be greatly distressed. 

“How terrible!” she said. “He must not see me at home. He 
might recognise me and then he would know that I was a girl.” 

“You do not want him to know that?” 

“No,” said Mabel with assurance. “At least—no.” 

Sheila waved her hands in a gesture of despair. 

“He might speak to father,” said Mabel. “He might be angry, 
too, and that might make him dislike me.” 

Sheila rose with determination and went towards the door. 

“This matter is beyond me,” she said. “We want the help of a 
man. I am going to wire for the younger George. He is not doing 
anything special in London and can return at once. I shall say 
that I have broken my leg. He will not believe it, but it will bring 
him back by the first train.” 

It did. The younger George was a tall, handsome boy, clever, 
but not over-burdened with brains. He had a fresh, good- 
humoured face, two merry black eyes, and he adored the ground 
that Sheila Cornwall trod on. She, it may be remarked, had a 
regard for the ground he trod on, but she never mentioned the fact. 
They had grown up together as boy and girl. They understood 
each other, and each believed that they had been specially made for 
the other. No one else shared this view, unfortunately; the rest of 
the Cornwall family, and all their friends, refused to listen to what 
either of them had to say on the matter. They laughed when 
George threw out tentative hints, and said that he was talking non¬ 
sense. Neither of them deserved to be taken seriously—that was 
the general opinion. It was the one cloud on the lives of both 
Sheila and George, and it was a cloud of some magnitude. George 
was a decent lad. It was not possible for him—with the bar of 
his illegitimacy—to force an alliance with the family that had 
done everything for him. Sheila, conscious of this and of her 
father’s objection, respected his silence. 


128 


LITTLE DAVID 


“My hat!” said the younger George, after he had listened to 
an abridged and much expurgated version of the story of Mabel 
Canning, and he regarded that young person with round and 
astonished eyes. 

“If you have no other suggestion to offer,” said Sheila shortly, 
“you had better go back to London. My hat indeed!” 

“Give a fellow a chance, Sheila,” remonstrated the penitent one. 
“It is rather a shock to think of little Mabel Canning going about 
dressed as a boy.” 

“Men,” said Sheila, “are idiots. I wonder why we women 
tolerate them!” 

“Half a second,” said George. “You have not told me what you 
want my advice about. You have only told me the story.” 

They placed the matter before him—at least Sheila did. Mabel 
did not wish John Henry to see her. He might arrive any day at 
her father’s house. On the other hand she must see him because 
it would be wise to prevent any chance of the escapade coming to 
the ears of Philip Canning, also there were many other reasons 
which it was quite unnecessary to state. George faced this per¬ 
plexing problem with a frown, for a few moments, and then his 
face cleared. He said: 

“Well, go home and come back here as Little David. You run no 
risk in our house. It will be a great lark!” 

“That is an idea,” said Sheila thoughtfully. 

“I could never do it,” said Mabel, blushing hotly. 

“Why not? You have done it before,” said George, who was 
a man and foolish. 

“That was different,” said both Mabel and Sheila at one and the 
same time, “quite different.” 

George failed to see this, but he was quelled by the finality of 
both their voices. The idea appealed to him, however, and he 
grew quite enthusiastic about it. The two girls listened, allowed 
themselves to be persuaded, and finally gave way. They entered 


THE RED HOUSE 


129 


into a discussion of the plan with gusto, and very soon the main 
details were fixed. 

“Remember,” said Sheila, when they had arrived at this point, 
“it was your idea!” 

“Yes, he thought of it first,” said Mabel diffidently. 

The plan suddenly appeared to George in an entirely fresh 
aspect. He grew serious, but a twinkle showed in his eyes. He 
also made some irrelevant and muttered remark to the effect that 
girls were the devil. He ruminated for a time, and then he startled 
the pair by an amended decision. 

“All right,” he said, “since it is my idea, I shall tell you what 
to do. This man arrives here in the afternoon. Mabel can go home 
in the morning and so she will not see him, or he see her. We shall 
see him, however, and Sheila and I can judge whether it is wise for 
him to see Little David again or not. I may be a fool, but Sheila 
is not. If it is considered wise, then we can ’phone for Mabel to 
come over. If it is considered unwise, we can ’phone and tell her 
so. The decision lies in the lap of the gods. It all hangs on the 
man.” 

“Carried unanimously,” said Sheila. “Come into the garden, 
George, I want to show you the new arch for the roses.” 

“You wise man,” she said, when they were out of sight of the 
windows, and she kissed him on the cheek. 

George glowed, but he left her alone. He was a decent boy, 
George, and he loved Sheila and wished to continue to live in the 
same house with her, even though everybody refused to credit his 
own feelings in the matter. 

“I must tell you all about it,” said Sheila. 

She did—or rather she did not, but she gave him a fuller 
description, including an imagined sketch of the character 
of John Henry Millman, and an indication of the state of 
strain between Mabel and her father. George listened in 
silence, and when she had finished he spoke, but he passed no 
opinion. 


130 


LITTLE DAVID 


“We must wait and see the man,” he said. “He might be a 
rotter. We have only her word to go by. Not that I disbelieve what 
she has said—far from it. I like his book and if he resembles it, 
well and good. He may not, however; of that we must judge for 
ourselves.” 

George had a second brain-wave on Thursday morning. 

“Does he know what station to come to, and what is his train?” 
he asked. 

“If it is Millman you are talking about,” said George Cornwall, 
who had just returned from London, “for goodness sake write him 
a letter. He must be treated with respect. According to Canning 
and Canning—your father’s firm, my dear—he is a man of great 
irritability and very much on his dignity. They are afraid of 
losing him, and we must not be at fault. I am too poor to risk 
anything of that nature.” 

Sheila laughed at Mabel’s discomfited face. They were seated 
at lunch. George Cornwall—from experience—cast a scared glance 
at his daughter, and from her to young George, and finally he 
looked at Mabel with some curiosity. 

“You young people appear amused,” he said uneasily. “I hope 
you have no wild scheme in your heads. I must ask you to 
restrain yourself, Sheila; in fact you had better leave Millman 
alone and let me deal with him. If you startle, or put him out, I 
shall be extremely annoyed. I shall have to meet the train my¬ 
self and bring him over.” 

“All right, daddy,” said Sheila. “We shall be very nice and 
quiet. Mabel is going home in the morning, so she will not be here 
to worry Mr. Millman.” 

“I am not afraid of Mabel,” said George Cornwall, “but I am 
afraid of you. I can remember strange things happening on 
divers occasions, and I am nervous—decidedly nervous. I expect 
both you and George to agree with every word he utters—and to 
keep your own mouths shut. When you write that letter—you have 
written him once, so you had better do it—tell him to travel first- 


THE RED HOUSE 


131 


class. There is a fair on at the junction and the trains will be 
packed to suffocation.” 

They sent John Henry a letter telling him to book to Tipping 
Horley, the nearest station to Litshot; they indicated the one and 
only through train; and they remembered to state the necessity of 
travelling first-class. The letter, as you might imagine, startled 
John Henry exceedingly. He was disturbed at the necessity of 
travelling first-class, and he was completely taken by surprise at 
the thought of arriving at Tipping Horley. Veronica, watching 
him depart, was assured more than ever that disaster lay before him. 
She went to his room, after his figure had disappeared round the 
comer of the street, and, throwing her apron over her head, relieved 
her feelings in a copious burst of tears. After that she examined 
the address which John Henry had written down on an odd piece of 
paper; and the Red House seemed to her to be a fitting spot for a 
tragedy. Veronica was distracted. 

The inhabitants of the Red House awaited the time of John 
Henry’s arrival with interest, foreboding, and some excitement. 
Mabel had departed and so her feelings cannot be described. 
George Cornwall—he was short, inclined to stoutness, and of a 
good-natured, jolly disposition—was unsettled and anxious. Sheila 
and George were vividly interested and exceedingly curious. 
Muggie was affected by the general impression of excitement in 
the air and somewhat confused in consequence. The Red House— 
it was whitewashed, by the way, but no matter—was small and 
greatly in need of repairs. The furnishings were old, and shabby, 
and rather untidy. The dishes were of a harlequin-like variety, 
and the one and only maid-servant was small and apt to breathe 
hard in moments of emotion. She was in a state of emotion at 
the moment, having been chivied and harried to an unusual and 
surprising extent in a great effort to make everything appear fresh, 
and new, and spotlessly clean. Even the car—a most disreputable¬ 
looking Ford—had received a much required washing down. 

Three-quarters of an hour before the train was due young George 


132 


LITTLE DAVID 


ran this vehicle out of the shed where it lived and brought it 
groaning to the front door. Ten minutes later George Cornwall— 
looking very spruce in a worn but well-brushed suit of tweeds— 
emerged from the door, while the entire family hovered in 
the background to watch him start. A suspicious twinkle 
lurked in the eyes of both Sheila and George, and this Muggie 
perceived, for she gave vent to a startled yet seemingly resigned 
sigh. 

George Cornwall was a timid driver. He hated motors and 
everything mechanical. He started the engine, took his seat, 
waved to the group on the doorstep, and turned the wheel pre¬ 
paratory to passing down the short drive. He turned the steering, 
wheel, but the wheels of the car remained immovable. 

“George!” he said in a voice of agony. “The wretched steering- 
gear has gone wrong. You must drive for me.” 

The car, by the way, was a two-seater which could take three at 
a pinch. 

“I am afraid I cannot do that,” said George seriously. “I hurt 
my wrist this morning, and it might be dangerous if the steering- 
gear proved troublesome.” 

George Cornwall sat in the car a picture of desolation. 

“What on earth are we to do?” he asked helplessly. 

“I shall have to drive,” said Sheila, with the twinkle absolutely 
gone from her eyes. 

“But if he is a fat man there will not be room for the three of 
us,” said her father. “He will be squeezed to death!” 

“Then I must go by myself,” said Sheila. 

“If I thought you would act in a seemly fashion,” said her 
father, “it would be the better course to follow, but how can I tell? 
You might shock him at the outset and give a bad impression. He 
might be afraid to let you drive. You look so irresponsible!” 

“To say such things, of your own daughter, too,” said Sheila in 
mock horror. “I promise, daddy, to be as quiet as a mouse.” 

“I am thin,” said George eagerly. “I can go with Sheila, and 


THE RED HOUSE 


133 


if Millman is fat I can sit at their feet. He will feel more at ease 
with a man in the car.” 

George Cornwall descended from his perch and although he 
seemed unhappy, he also seemed greatly relieved. 

“It is fate, I suppose,” he said in a resigned voice. “For good¬ 
ness sake be careful and do not have an accident.” 

Sheila climbed in and George followed at her heels. The steer¬ 
ing-gear—in some miraculous fashion—after a little tinkering 
acted as steering-gears are supposed to act, and the car moved 
away. 

“I wonder—!” said George Cornwall to his sister, but Muggie 
hurried into the house and left him wondering. She, wise woman, 
did not wonder at all. 

“I hate playing a trick on daddy,” said Sheila to George, as 
they sped along the road, “but I just had to meet this man. I want 
to see him before he sees us.” 

She had a very good opportunity of doing this. 

The trains which stop at Tipping Horley are long, but they 
carry few first-class passengers, only one first-class coach, and this 
is invariably in the front of the train. Sheila and George took 
up a favourable position on the platform and waited. The one and 
only porter—the very same porter that John Henry had spoken to— 
was in evidence, and he looked at them with animosity. 

“He is a new man,” said Sheila, “and very uncivil. He lives, 
I believe, at some distance from Tipping Horley in the country 
on the other side from Litshot. At least so some one told me.” 

“He is very old to be working,” said George. “I wonder they do 
not pension him off.” 

The train being signalled, at that moment, he ceased to wonder. 
They waited expectantly, and presently it steamed in. They had 
taken up their position with accuracy. The first-class coach was 
directly in front of them, and from one of the carriages a young 
man emerged. He carried a suit-case in one hand on which they 
both saw the words “John Henry Millman” painted in white, and 


134 


LITTLE DAVID 


in the other hand he held a bundle done up in a large red and 
white handkerchief. He was tall, and thin, and emaciated. His 
face was the colour of parchment, and he seemed feeble—brittle 
almost—like a dry reed that might snap but will not bend. His 
eyes were dark, coal black in colour, sunk deep in his head, and his 
expression was pitifully and touchingly wistful. He looked like a 
wasted shadow of youth. He did not glance at the two young peo¬ 
ple but walked away from them, placed the suit-case on the plat¬ 
form, and stood beside it like a lost soul. 

Sheila grasped George’s arm and clung to him in a sudden panic. 

“That must be Millman. There is no one else, and the name 
is on his case!” said George in a horrified whisper. 

“It cannot be,” said Sheila. “Poor little Mabel!” 

Very few people had descended from the train. The youth was 
the only first-class passenger. They watched the people pass out 
of the station without stirring from where they stood, and not one 
soul bore the faintest sign of being a possible John Henry Millman. 
The youth with the suit-case was the one remaining person except 
for the ancient porter struggling with some cases at the far end by 
the guard’s van. George pulled Sheila along as the train steamed 
out of the station. They went slowly, for, to tell the truth, they were 
loath to speak to the young man. Before they had time to reach 
him, however, he commenced to walk away with eager, feeble steps; 
and he left the suit-case on the platform. 

“Good heavens!” said George, and halted in dismay. 

The ancient porter, abandoning his task, had come running for¬ 
ward. He met the youth and, without a word, clasped him in his 
arms. The action was rough and simple, but it expressed an 
infinity of meaning. 

“Welcome home, lad,” he said quietly. “I am glad to see you.” 

“Uncle, they have told me that I am going—home,” said the 
boy, and the meaning of his words was clearly apparent by the 
medium of his quivering voice. 

“Don’t say that, lad, don’t say it,” said the ancient porter, and 


THE RED HOUSE 


135 


his voice was a revelation of gentleness. “Harry has come over 
with Peter Toomy’s cart. He is waiting outside. We are all 
waiting to welcome you back. You must be brave for the sake of 
your mother.” 

“I will try uncle, but—it is hard,” said the boy. “It is mortal 
hard,” and his voice broke on a sob. 

“I know that,” said the ancient porter, “and I kept your mother 
from coming to the station on purpose. You will be smiling by the 
time you reach the cottage. I know you will.” 

He took the youth by the hand like a child and led him out of the 
station. 

“George! He must be dying,” said Sheila, and she flung herself 
into his ready arms. 

In this fashion they failed to see the approach of John Henry 
Millman who had emerged from the rear of the train, and, recog¬ 
nising his old friend the porter, had disappeared from sight into the 
guard’s van to assist him in his labours. John Henry, who had 
witnessed the meeting of the ancient porter and the youth and 
heard their conversation, had a suspicious brightness in his eyes; 
but that was of no consequence. He also* as it happened, had 
entirely forgotten the reason for his presence on the platform at 
Tipping Horley; and that was of no consequence either. 

The sight of George and Sheila stayed John Henry’s steps and 
he paused to look at them with admiration. The thought which 
crossed his mind was that here was a pleasing spectacle for sore 
eyes to look at, and this was reflected on his face. He stood, con¬ 
sidering them in a detached and impartial manner, and he smiled 
as he did so in a very engaging fashion. Sheila, freeing herself 
from George, perceived him in the middle of this smile. 

“That is our man. I am certain of it,” she whispered. 

She advanced, dragging George after her, and held out her hand. 

“Mr. John Henry Millman!” she said eagerly. 

“That is my name,” said John Henry, rather astonished, but 
still sufficiently detached to remain smiling and easy. 


136 


LITTLE DAVID 


“I am Sheila Cornwall and this is George,” said Sheila. “We 
have come to meet you. The car is outside.” 

“Bless my soul!” said John Henry considerably taken aback. 
“Of course, I had forgotten. I am coming to stay with you.” 

Sheila and George exchanged glances, and whether they both 
had the same thought is hard to say, but they both seemed pleased. 

“Is this your case?” inquired George, seizing it. 

“It is,” said John Henry and he paused, appeared to be in doubt 
for a moment, and then looking at Sheila asked a question. 
“Excuse me,” he said, “I must know at once. This gentleman’s 
name is not George Cornwall by any chance?” 

“George Dallas,” explained Sheila, blushing very prettily. “My 
name is Cornwall.” 

“Then that is all right,” said John Henry, and he heaved a sigh 
of relief. “I had a sudden and terrible thought that you might be 
brother and sister.” 

George and Sheila, for no obvious reason, for John Henry’s 
words were vague and peculiar, seized him one by either arm as if 
they had known him for years, and hurried him out of the station 
to the car. 

“You come in next, Mr. Millman,” said Sheila, after she was 
seated at the wheel. “We are all thin and can squeeze in quite 
comfortably.” 

John Henry was about to comply when a touch on the arm made 
him turn around. The ancient porter, sour of face no longer, 
stood there with his cap in his hand. 

“I want a word with you, sir,” he said in a husky, quivering 
voice. 

“Certainly,” said John Henry. “You must excuse me for one 
second,” he added, turning to Sheila. “I shall not keep you wait¬ 
ing long.” 

The ancient porter moved away out of earshot from the car and 
nearer to where, in a rough farm cart, the youth who had descended 
from the first-class carriage was seated. 


THE RED HOUSE 


137 


“I want to thank you for your kindness to my lad there, 1 ” he said. 
“He wants to thank you too. He has been very ill and the doc¬ 
tors have sent him back to us because—they fear he is going home. 
He might have been gone by now, if he had travelled down in one 
of these crowded carriages. We are poor, you see, and could 
afford nothing better.” 

“You remember that you told me why you had returned to work,” 
said John Henry gently. “There is no necessity for you to say any¬ 
thing at all. You must not thank me.” He drew a packet of thin 
white paper from his pocket and commenced to write. “This is 
my address,” he continued “and I have put my name down also. 
I want you to let me know how the boy gets on, and if there is any¬ 
thing I can do you must tell me at once. Then it is I who will 
have to thank you.” 

He detached a couple of sheets from the packet which he crushed 
carelessly into his pocket, folded them—they were folded once in 
any case—slipped the paper into the old man’s hand, and hurried 
over to the cart. 

“You are going to let me know how you get on,” he said to the 
boy, and he refused to listen to his broken words of thanks. “I 
shall not say good-bye for we shall meet again some day.” 

The ancient porter stood, where John Henry had left him, star¬ 
ing at the paper in his hand; thin, fine, white paper that crackled 
and rustled to the touch. He caught John Henry’s sleeve as he was 
hurrying back to the car and his voice was urgent and full of 
entreaty. 

“I can’t take it, sir. I didn’t go to beg for money—least of all 
from you. You must take this back!” 

“If I were a rich man, yes, you might say that to me,” said John 
Henry, “but I am not. I am poor, like yourself, and it is the 
privilege of the poor to help one another. You will not be so un¬ 
kind as to make me take it back, and then my address is there.” 

He broke away from the old man and, gaining the car, stepped 
inside in a great hurry. 


138 


LITTLE DAVID 


“I’m very sorry to have kept you waiting,” said John Henry, and 
then he used his handkerchief with vigour, muttering at the same 
time some strange statement about dust in his eyes and throat. 

George started the engine and got in; Sheila drove away; and 
none of them uttered a word. John Henry continued to be troubled 
by the dust in his eyes and throat; but when they approached the 
Black Bull and actually stopped at the door, then he appeared to 
have completely got rid of the disturbing substance. 

“I have a great regard for the Black Bull,” said John Henry in 
some excitment. “A friend of my own lives there. He is the odd 
man and a very nice fellow indeed. He was most kind to me 
on the only other occasion when I was in Tipping Horley.” 

“There is a telephone inside,” said Sheila to George, “and if you 
have any doubt about what you have to say don’t ever speak to me 
again. It is a friend who is very anxious to hear from us,” she 
explained to John Henry. “George will be back in a few 
moments.” 

Sheila, who was mischievous, might have returned to the subject 
of John Henry’s previous visit to Tipping Horley, but she preferred 
to ask him a question instead. 

“Why did you want to know if George was my brother?” she 
asked, and her cheeks grew a trifle red. 

John Henry regarded her closely, for a moment, and then his 
face grew grave. 

“Because when I saw you two standing on the platform, I thought 
to myself: ‘These two beautiful young creatures are just made, 
cut out for each other’—so I had to ask. I wanted to find out, too, 
if you had made the discovery for yourselves. Young people are 
so apt to be blind and foolish. You, thank goodness, are not.” 

Sheila, with a total lack of maidenly reserve, flung both arms 
round John Henry’s neck and kissed him full on the lips. George, 
emerging from the inn, was a startled witness to this scandalous 
outburst. His astonished face appeared at John Henry’s elbow as 
that gentleman was recovering his composure. 


THE RED HOUSE 


139 


“I don’t care,” said Sheila defiantly. “He has just said that 
when he saw us on the platform, he saw we were made, cut out 
for each other; and the solemn way he said it would make any¬ 
body believe it true.” 

“But it is,” objected John Henry. 

George entered the car and seized both John Henry’s hands. 

“You are the first person, except ourselves, to either see or say 
it,” he said with enthusiasm, and he almost broke John Henry’s 
knuckles. “There is a reason why I cannot force them to believe 
it true,” he added in an altered voice that failed to reach the ears 
of Sheila. “I shall tell you later on.” 

John Henry learnt this reason that same night, but he made 
no attempt to help the young people. Happiness, John Henry 
believed, seldom lay beyond the doorway of an unwilling consent, 
and he sensed the fact that both George Cornwall and Muggie— 
possibly without thinking seriously of the matter—objected to the 
idea of such a marriage for Sheila. John Henry, however, made 
a mental note of the matter and determined to bear it in mind. He 
was, at any time, an odd creature. 

“I’m glad we telephoned before he told me that,” said Sheila to 
George, as the car sped along the road. 

“So am I,” said George to Sheila. 

John Henry, mystified, remained silent. Also he had suddenly 
recalled the fact that he was bound on a solemn visit directly 
connected with Canning and Canning, and his heart turned to 
water at the thought of the dramatist who had read his book and 
wished to discuss it. The two young people were aware that some¬ 
thing had happened to him. Poor Sheila put it down to her kiss, 
while George imagined that he had injured John Henry’s knuckles 
beyond repair. In this fashion John Henry arrived at the door of 
the Red House in a dignified silence; and, descending, was 
delivered by the two young people to his host who had been stand¬ 
ing, for some time past, anxiously listening for the sound of the car. 


CHAPTER XI 


IN WHICH LITTLE DAVID AGAIN APPEARS 

John Henry was nervous. George Cornwall was oppressed with 
a certainty that Sheila had done something terrible; and Muggie 
was deeply conscious that the worst hole in the carpet showed 
beside John Henry’s feet. They sat in the constrained atmosphere 
created by forced conversation, and the maid, bringing in the tea, 
placed the tray on the table with a crash that made them all jump. 
There was an awkward pause and two more silent members were 
added to the company in the persons of George and Sheila. 

George Cornwall made an attempt to speak of John Henry’s 
book, but John Henry, retiring within himself, remained adamant. 
Muggie rushing gallantly into the breach with tea and cakes, 
matters eased a little, but a second and even more distressing pause 
ensued. Again Muggie intervened, and this time her words were 
spontaneous. 

‘‘Whatever is that on the sofa?” she asked. 

“That is Mr. Millman’s overcoat,” said Sheila seriously. 

“My coat,” said John Henry, half rising up and then sitting 
down again. “Did I bring it in here? I am very sorry.” 

“I brought it in,” said Sheila. 

The Cornwall family, with the exception of young George, 
became lost in a well of despair. 

“Why did you bring Mr. Millman’s coat in here?” asked Muggie, 
not because she wanted to know, but because she felt impelled to 
say something. 

“Because Mr. Millman is here,” said Sheila with great serious- 

140 


LITTLE DAVID AGAIN APPEARS 


141 


ness. “I thought it best that it should be in the same room with 
him.” 

John Henry, already afflicted with nerves, had a vision of 
being haunted by a garment from which it was impossible to 
escape. 

“That is very good of you,” he said, “but I think it might be 
left outside.” 

George Cornwall found his voice and it sounded stern and 
annoyed. 

“What is all this nonsense? Why have you brought the coat 
in here?” 

“Ask Mr. Millman what is in the right outside pocket,” said 
Sheila solemnly. 

“The right outside pocket,” repeated poor John Henry, who was 
in the habit of carrying strange articles on his person. “The 
right—” he paused suddenly and turned to Sheila with a glance 
of comprehension. “Oh!” he said profoundly. “I understand. 
That was Very thoughtful of you, but it would be quite safe any¬ 
where in this house.” 

“What is it?” asked Muggie, who was a curious soul. 

“All the money I possess in the world,” said John Henry, “and 
not very much at that. I stuffed the notes in there by mistake and 
Miss Sheila must have seen me do it.” 

“Miss Sheila did not, but Sheila did,” said that young woman 
in a voice of correction. 

John Henry looked at her and smiled, and then he turned to 
George Cornwall. 

“You know,” he said, “I entirely forgot till I was near your door 
what I had come here for. I felt quite at home; in fact I felt as 
if I had known these two beautiful creatures all my life. They 
welcomed me so kindly at the station. People, of late, have been 
very good to me indeed.” 

George Cornwall leant back in his chair with a sigh of relief, 
and Muggie deliberately engulfed a small cookie at a single gulp. 


142 


LITTLE DAVID 


The Cornwall family, as you might say, looked round and smiled 
on John Henry and on itself. 

“I was right. It was a mixture of nerves and father,” said 
Sheila to George. 

“You are always right,” said George to Sheila. 

“We have all been scared to death of you,” they said in chorus 
to John Henry. 

“Scared of me!” said John Henry in genuine amazement. “What 
an extraordinary idea! Whatever for?” 

“Not scared, exactly,” said George Cornwall with a laugh, 
“nervous is the better word. You have impressed Canning and 
Canning with respect, Mr. Millman, and they gave me the most 
stringent instructions not to offend your dignity, nor arouse your 
irritable temper. They want to keep you and I do not blame them. 
Your work is of value, but I cannot quite understand how they 
failed so signally to estimate your character.” 

“I can,” said Sheila fiercely. 

“Be quiet, my dear,” said her father. “I know what you are 
going to say and you must not say it. My daughter thinks my 
poor efforts have not gained sufficient recognition,” he explained 
to John Henry, “and she refused to lay the blame where it is due— 
at my own door.” 

John Henry paid no attention. He was lost in a species of 
wondering trance. For weeks he had thought that Canning and 
Canning disliked, and wished to get rid both of him and his work. 
He had been assured of this and profoundly depressed in conse¬ 
quence. The discovery that the matter stood the other way round 
filled him with astonishment, and he failed to fathom how this 
amazing state of affairs could have come into existence. Then, 
quite suddenly, he commenced to laugh. 

“Excuse me,” he said, “but it is so funny—so funny and yet so 
extremely natural. I kept Canning and Canning waiting for an 
hour one day. I had an appointment, went there, and subsequently 
forgot all about it. I was scared stiff when I remembered, so 


LITTLE DAVID AGAIN APPEARS 


143 


scared that it was impossible for me to explain or apologize. They 
were annoyed so I just said nothing. I have avoided the place as 
much as possible for I thought they regretted having had anything 
to do with me.” 

George Cornwall gave vent to a laugh of deep enjoyment. 

“Such treatment from an unknown author must have shaken 
Canning and Canning to the core,” he chuckled. “I expect they 
gave you a rotten agreement and thought some other publisher had 
secured your interest. You must leave the matter as it is. Without 
doubt you were bom under a lucky star.” 

“To think,” said John Henry, following his own thoughts and 
speaking aloud, “that this arises from the afternoon which seemed 
to me, at the time, to be the worst I had ever spent!” 

“What were you doing?” asked Sheila with interest. 

“I had been looking for a man called the Dainty Brute for 
weeks,” said John Henry abruptly, “and when I entered Canning 
and Canning’s office he was seated there. He ran away, and I ran 
after him. I wanted to find out about a boy I know, and he 
seemed to be the only person who could tell me anything. Pie got 
away, however, by kicking me on the ankle; but it all took time.” 

Sheila and George exchanged startled glances. 

“What was he doing in Canning and Canning’s office?” asked 
Sheila unexpectedly. 

“Sitting on a chair and smiling at his boots,” said John Henry 
in the same absent fashion. “He has not been back, unfortunately, 
for I know the porter at the entrance, and he promised to tell me 
if ever he saw him again. I must find that man,” ended John 
Henry with energy, “for I am assured that the poor little fellow 
is still in trouble.” 

John Henry sat and frowned at the fire. George Cornwall and 
Muggie astonished, cast uneasy glances at George and Sheila, 
who were engaged on a vivid and mute pantomime which appeared 
to be both disturbing and pleasing in meaning. 

“I beg your pardon,” said John Henry, coming back with a start. 


144 


LITTLE DAVID 


“I have been thinking aloud. I have had a lot of worry of late. 
There was a boy-” 

Sheila, energetically kicking George on the shin, interrupted 
with determination. She had no wish for either her father or 
Muggie to say anything indiscreet on the subject of Mabel Canning, 
and John Henry might be about to give a description of Little 
David. 

“There was,” she said, “and George and I want to know about 
him. He came out of a first-class carriage, carrying your suit¬ 
case, and we thought, at first, he must be you.” 

John Henry became reserved. 

“I followed your instructions about the train,” he said with 
dignity, “but I prefer to travel third. It is useful to me because of 
the opportunity to study people. The boy was traveling third, 
and he gave up his seat to me.” He was silent, for a moment, 
and then he turned to Sheila and spoke in an entirely altered 
voice. “Do you think I could travel down in comfort after having 
seen that poor, wasted face gazing out of a packed and stifling 
carriage?” 

“I do not,” said Sheila, “but most people would not have seen it 
at all. One thing I do think is that you want some one to look after 
you. George is of the same opinion. Hand me his coat, George.” 

George handed her the garment in question. 

“May I ?” asked Sheila with her hand over the pocket. 

“Of course you may,” said John Henry. 

Sheila extracted the packet of notes—there were not many, and 
handed it to Jphn Henry, who stowed it away hurriedly and in 
some confusion. George Cornwall, highly amused, chuckled aloud; 
and Muggie goggled with curiosity. 

“We are used to extraordinary happenings in the Red House,” 
she said, “but this beats everything. How on earth did you know 
Mr. Millman’s money was there?” 

“Never mind,” said Sheila. “Go on and tell us about the boy, 
Mr. Millman.” 



LITTLE DAVID AGAIN APPEARS 


145 


“I really know nothing about him, but I can guess,” said John 
Henry. “He has been ill—a long and wasting illness. The doctors 
have done what they could, but they can do no more. They have 
sent him home to die. I gathered that from his face looking out 
of the train, and when I reached Tipping Horley and saw the old 
porter greeting him, then I understood everything. I have spoken 
to the old man before. They have not enough money to give the 
boy a chance of life. His illness has already driven the old man 
back to work. It is hard to die and be an added expense to those 
whom you love.” 

“Perhaps he will not die at all,” said Sheila. “You will never 
be a millionaire, Mr. Millman.” 

“I hope not,” said John Henry in all seriousness. “A lot of 
money must be a terrible responsibility.” 

“Somebody is going to make money out of this book of yours,” 
said George Cornwall, “and if you can see it as a play, you also 
stand to make a little. If these young people go away and leave 
us alone we might discuss the matter in peace. I asked you down 
here as a purely business proposition promoted by Canning, but 
you are welcome to stay as long as you please with no thought of 
business at all.” 

In this manner John Henry found himself taken to the bosom 
of the family at the Red House, and he was exceedingly pleased. 
He listened to what George Cornwall had to say on the subject 
of his book, and he glowed with pleasure over his kindly and 
well-meant criticisms and generous praise. He watched Sheila 
and smiled—a fact which that young woman noted in his favour, 
and he studied young George with interest. Altogether John Henry 
was exceedingly happy; but he did not forget his anxiety on the 
subject of Little David, and he did not forget to think of visiting 
the odd man at the Black Bull at Tipping Horley, and he 
determined to make a number of excursions to the station to inquire 
after the state of the sick boy. 

The first of these excursions was promoted by Sheila, aided by 


146 


LITTLE DAVID 


George, and approved by the other two members of the Cornwall 
family with reserve. This happened at breakfast on the day follow¬ 
ing his arrival, and the elder members of the household knew that 
Sheila must have some definite object in view, and so they were 
somewhat distracted. 

They were more distracted still when—John Henry safely out of 
the house—Sheila commenced to outline a part of the tale of Little 
David, and passed on to the statement that the young gentleman 
was shortly to put in an appearance at the Red House. 

Muggie said that she had never heard of such a thing, and 
George Cornwall backed her opinion. He went a step further than 
this and stated that he would not be a party to so dangerous a 
proceeding. He also said something about putting his foot down 
once and for all. Whereupon Sheila and George commenced to 
argue and put forward reasons both wise and foolish with all the 
enthusiasm of youth. They went on arguing till Muggie became 
uncertain whether she stood on her head or her heels—she was 
seated in a comfortable chair, by the way, and George Cornwall 
dropped his most cherished meerschaum pipe—it would have been 
broken if Sheila had not caught it in time. This last incident 
caused George Cornwall to wonder what he would do without 
Sheila; and that, I believe, was more instrumental in causing him 
to look favourably on the scheme than anything else. 

In the middle of the discussion—they were grouped round the 
fire in the sitting-room—the door opened and John Henry Millman 
walked in. He appeared both angry and excited, yet he also 
appeared vastly pleased. He carried a suit-case in one hand, a 
parcel done up in brown paper in the other; and, securely attached 
by both hands to the left sleeve of his coat, was a small, slender 
youth, dressed in a blue, double-breasted rain-proof coat and a 
grey felt hat. The coat was long and came below the knees, and the 
hat was pulled well down over the head. He was very white and 
the line of his mouth was very straight. His eyes were wide open, 
and there was a stunned, dazed expression on his face. He 


LITTLE DAVID AGAIN APPEARS 


147 


abandoned his hold on John Henry’s coat and stood by himself 
in the middle of the floor in a composed, but curiously constrained, 
attitude. It took the Cornwall family quite a few moments to 
trace a resemblance in him to Mabel Canning. John Henry, 
acutely conscious of the necessity for an explanation of this in¬ 
vasion, opened his mouth; but the youth made a statement before 
he had time to speak. 

“Father has turned me out,” he said quietly, and then he swayed 
and fell in a heap on the floor. 

As George Cornwall said, long afterwards, it ended the dis¬ 
cussion before Muggie and he went mad, and that was one good 
thing anyway. 

Astonishment and consternation had held the Cornwall family 
motionless, but when the youth swayed Sheila sprang to her feet. 
She was not in time to catch him, but she was in time to thrust 
John Henry out of the way. She did this with vigour, and then 
she—there is no other description possible—seemed to spread her¬ 
self over the prostrate figure. 

“George!” she commanded in a voice of agony. “Take him 
away. Take them both away—at once!” 

George was a young man of action, also it was his pleasure to 
obey Sheila in all things. John Henry and George Cornwall found 
themselves on the other side of the closed door before they knew 
what had happened; and young George continued to hold them 
there, awaiting instructions from within. The three male things 
regarded one another; John Henry astounded, George Cornwall 
perturbed, and young George astonished but calm and quite 
collected. 

“Leave him to Sheila. She knows what to do,” said the latter 
gentleman with confidence. 

From within came the sound of a painful gasp, the low murmur 
of two sympathetic female voices, and then the unmistakable sound 
of some one weeping bitterly. John Henry became restive. 

“Let go,” he said. “I must go in. I cannot leave the poor 


148 


LITTLE DAVID 


little fellow alone. A boy hates crying at any time and before 
strangers makes it worse.” 

George relinquished his hold of the elder George and confined 
his attention to John Henry. 

“He is not with strangers,” he said. “You must stay here.” 

John Henry was astounded. 

“You have seen Little David before!” he exclaimed. 

“Never,” said both the Georges with decision. 

“Well—!” commenced John Henry. 

“His father has apparently turned him out. You know him. 
That is enough for us,” interrupted the elder George, unexpectedly 
coming to the rescue. “He requires to be mothered, and Muggie 
will be glad to do that. Come into the garden both of you. It is 
not good for a man to listen to a—a boy crying like that. It tends 
to soften the brain, and make you consent to foolish things. 
Come away at once!” 

The elder George departed throught the door in haste, and betook 
himself to the furthest point of the garden from the house. He 
stood by a gap in the hedge, mopping his brow, and he looked 
as if it would not take much to induce him to nip through the 
gap, gain the adjacent road, and flee altogether. The younger 
George, after a moment of hesitation, followed the elder one; and 
as he still retained a policeman-like grip on John Henry, that 
gentleman went also. They found the elder George in an agitated 
state of gloom. 

“It is my doing,” said John Henry with contrition, “for I 
brought him here. I did not think. I just acted. I am a fool.” 

“I don’t want to be a fool,” said the elder George with vigour. 
“That is why I came out. They will not allow me to remain, 
but never mind. Where did you find him, Mr. Millman?” 

“It was just outside Tipping Horley,” said John Henry. “He 
came round a comer, walking very fast, looking as if some one had 
struck him across the face. He saw me, stopped in the middle of 
the road, and his parcels dropped from his hands. He paid no 


LITTLE DAVID AGAIN APPEARS 


149 


attention to them and I thought he was going to faint. I ran up, 
for I was very pleased to see him again, but he shrank back at once. 
He is a strange boy,” said John Henry reflectively, “and dislikes 
being touched. I learnt that before. It is very odd.” 

“Nothing odd about it at all,” said the elder George, and then 
he wilted under an indignant stare from the younger one. 
“Some people are like that,” he added hastily. “My own 
brother . . . !” 

“I asked where he was going and what was the matter,” con¬ 
tinued John Henry, “and he seemed too dazed to know or reply. 
Then he said his father had turned him out, and when I heard 
that and saw his lips quivering, I just spoke and acted without 
thinking.” 

“What did you do?” asked the younger George in an interested 
voice. 

“I lifted his packages,” said John Henry with reserve, “and 
advised him to come with me. He did too,” continued John Henry 
with no reserve at all, “just as he did when I took him away from 
the Dainty Brute. He grasped the sleeve of my coat with both 
hands and hung on hard, only I did not feel that he was holding 
my coat at all, and so I came straight here without thinking. 
You know,” said John Henry simply, “when something small and 
helpless takes a hold on your heart, you do not think. You just 
act.” 

The garden of the Red House was quite a safe place for John 
Henry to make this remark in, although, unfortunately, every 
place would not be like it. 

“I believe,” said the elder George in a hollow voice, “that I 
would have been wiser to remain in the house. I can see-” 

“What can you see?” interrupted the younger George in a 
voice of warning. 

“Oh! Somebody in the road, I think,” said George Cornwall 
in a hopeless fashion. 

“Extraordinary!” said young George with such an air of its 



150 


LITTLE DAVID 


being an exceptional thing, but they all peered excitedly through 
the gap in the hedge. 

“Perhaps it is somebody after Little David/’ said John Henry, 
and he immediately became war-like. “I shall go and find 
out.” 

Young George, certain that no one was about, restrained him. 
George Cornwall, rendered light-headed by the trend of events, 
assisted. They became mixed, and presented the appearance of three 
men in combat rather than three peaceable male things standing 
in a private garden. An extraordinary spectacle which was not 
wasted, for there was some one in the road, and that some one 
was vividly interested. 

“Please, sir!” said a voice from the rear, and they all turned 
round to confront the little maid of all work, and she appeared 
to be confused and distracted. 

“Well!” demanded George Cornwall. “What is it now?” 

“You are all to come in at once, at least you are not to come 
in at all,” she said confusedly. “I mean you must never come 
in no more.” 

“What did Miss Sheila say?” asked young George with dis¬ 
cernment. 

“She said you were to come in at once, but the missus-” 

“Come on!” said young George joyously. He seized George 
Cornwall by the arm, and retaining his grip on John Henry, 
commenced to rush them towards the house. 

In the sitting-room Muggie sat on the edge of her chair in an 
upright and impressive attitude as if she had been delivering a 
lecture on some subject of vital importance. Sheila stood before 
the fire with her hands clasped behind her back, her face flushed, 
and her expression one of righteous indignation. Little David 
crouched in a large, low chair, half hidden by the arms; and 
what could be seen of him appeared both startled and apprehensive. 
The dazed, stunned look had gone from his eyes, but they remained 
very sad and wistful. He was obviously nervous, ill at ease, and 



LITTLE DAVID AGAIN APPEARS 


151 


unwilling to face the three men. Curiously enough it was George 
Cornwall he seemed to dread the most. 

The three men sat down; John Henry near Little David, young 
George in a position of advantage to admire Sheila, and George 
Cornwall by the side of Muggie. Sheila remained standing. 

“David Johnson,” she commenced, enunciating the name with 
great distinctness, and then she turned fiercely on young George. 
“What did you say?” she demanded. 

“I merely remarked—the son of John,” said George humbly. 

“Don’t be a fool,” said Sheila. 

“I’m sorry,” said George contritely. “I could not help it.” 

“David Johnson,” repeated Sheila, “has told us his story, so 
I thought you had better come in and hear it too. He has been 
treated shamefully—shamefully 1 His father is a brute. Go on, 
Little David!” 

Little David appeared to find it difficult to go on. 

“I—I had to go somewhere,” he said in an uncertain voice, and 
he seemed to address George Cornwall in particular. It was 
almost as if he were trying to placate him for being there. 

George Cornwall looked at the fire, frowned, and seemed to 
be making a great effort to appear stern and unyielding. 

“You had to go somewhere because they were so unkind to you 
at home that you could not stay there,” said John Henry in a 
low voice. “You went once before, got into trouble, got out of it 
again, and now—through some misconception—your father has 
turned you out. You came here because you met me, and you 
are sorry to bother these kind folk. You want to go to some place 
where your father, or any of the other people who have perse¬ 
cuted you, can not come to take you away. You would never 
have got into trouble at all if you had not been like a flower 
in a dark spot reaching out for the light of the sun. You have 
been left alone—disregarded perhaps, and your heart hurts. 
It is all quite plain. There is no necessity for you to speak 
at all.” 


152 


LITTLE DAVID 


Little David turned toward John Henry and spread out his 
hands in an appealing, helpless fashion. 

“That is the simple truth,” he said, and his lips twitched. “I 
have done no wrong. I have tried hard to please my father. It 
has been hopeless. He does not want me. He accused me of 
unspeakable things, said that I was no child of his, and told 
me to go. He looked as if he would have liked to blast me where 
I stood. I went. What else could I do?” 

John Henry, Sheila, Muggie, and young George, all opened 
their mouths, and appeared to be about to make statements in 
answer to this; but the words were never uttered. A sudden babel 
of sound came from outside. Two voices raised in altercation 
arose shrilly insistent. There were all the indications of a struggle, 
and no small struggle at that. The front door banged shut three 
times, and was as often forced open. The furniture in the hall 
appeared to be suffering. The Cornwall family recognised the 
one voice as the property of the little maid of all work. They were 
dumbfounded. John Henry seemed to recognise the other voice. 
He was amazed. Astonishment held the listeners in the sitting- 
room motionless, and the struggle reached the door of the room. 

“In that room,” said one of the voices, and John Henry doubted 
his own hearing. “Then I am going in. Nothing will stop me!” 

This, apparently, was true, for the door burst open and a curious, 
lop-sided figure rushed in, closely followed by the little maid of 
all work. John Henry arose with a gasp. It was Veronica and 
she was hatless, her hair half down, her clothes anyhow; but there 
was a flush of victory on her sallow cheeks. The little maid of all 
work was likewise disarranged and she seemed to be on the point 
of tears. 

“She is mad. She would come in. I could not stop her!” she 
gasped. 

“Veronica! Whatever is the meaning of this intrusion?” asked 
John Henry with indignation. 

The flush of victory faded from Veronica’s cheeks. She looked 


LITTLE DAVID AGAIN APPEARS 


153 


round the room in a stupid, vacant fashion; and she seemed to 
shrink and grow additionally misshapen in her clothes. A hope¬ 
less, horrified expression came over her face, and she glanced at 
John Henry’s indignant figure with the stricken eyes of a dumb 
creature in excessive pain. She did not look at his face. She 
seemed to be afraid to do that, or perhaps it was because he had 
never looked angrily at her before. 

“I made a mistake, Mr. John,” she said in a whisper. “I 
made a mistake. I come to the wrong door. I—I made a great 
mistake, but I’ll go at once. I’ll go this minute.” 

Her voice caught and broke over the words. Her sallow, unlovely 
features moved in a queer, spasmodic fashion; and her odd, lop¬ 
sided body quivered and shook. She turned towards the door, an 
extraordinary sight with the thin strands of hair hanging from 
her head; and she looked like a figure of fun from hell’s Christmas 
pantomime. They all, John Henry included, watched her in a 
speechless amazement; and she paused at the door but she did not 
face them. 

“I didn’t go to displease you, Mr. John,” she whispered, and her 
back quivered. 

John Henry moved forward, but he was too late. Little David 
had sprung to his feet and was there before him. He slipped an 
arm round Veronica and prevented her from leaving the room. 
He continued to hold her and his voice was exceedingly gentle. 

“You must not go away,” he said. “You must stay here and 
tell us what has gone wrong. I know you meant no harm. What 
made you act so strangely?” 

“I thought he had got into trouble, that they were keeping him 
here against his will,” said Veronica humbly. “I saw them hold¬ 
ing him in the garden, and pulling him into the house, and I could 
not stay outside. I thought he might escape while they were 
knocking me about, and—I’ve only made a mess of everything!” 

As George Cornwall remarked that night there was some one 
in the road after all. 


154 


LITTLE DAVID 


“A mess of everything,” whispered Veronica, and she burst 
into a torrent of tears. 

Little David, acting on a spontaneous impulse that was exceed¬ 
ingly pretty to watch, gave Veronica a hearty hug and a kiss on 
the lips at one and the same time—then he hastily retreated a step. 

Veronica stopped weeping at once. She appeared to be bewil¬ 
dered, and she also appeared to forget her distress for a full 
moment. She stared at Little David, and Little David’s eyes 
fell, and his cheeks grew red. It was only natural that Veronica 
should be bewildered, for very few, if any, kisses had come in her 
direction. It was natural, too, that Little David should be con¬ 
fused. A kiss is an effeminate salutation. Still it was odd that 
Veronica should forget her distress if only for a moment, and that 
she had done so was so obvious, for when John Henry spoke, she 
lost her air of astonishment, her interest in Little David, and 
immediately became contrite. 

“Whatever made you think I was in trouble?” asked John 
Henry, and he touched her gently on the shoulder. “Veronica 
‘does’ for me,” he explained to the others. “I should be lost with¬ 
out her. She is a regular jewel of industry.” 

“She nearly did for me,” said the little maid of all work 
unexpectedly. 

“You would do the same yourself if you had an outside like 
me—for any one that had looked after you,” said Veronica and— 
oddly enough—she glanced at Little David after she had said 
this. 

John Henry immediately became reserved and dignified; and 
Sheila, perceiving this, took command of the situation. 

“Veronica must go and tidy herself,” she said. “Then she can 
come back and tell us everything.” 

Veronica went, and John Henry was moved to remark in a 
pained voice during her absence: 

“I’m afraid we are both proving a great trouble to you all.” 

This remark seemed to please Little David, Sheila, and young 


LITTLE DAVID AGAIN APPEARS 


155 


George; but Muggie and George Cornwall received it with an 
added gloom. 

Veronica, returning, found them all staring at the fire in 
silence; and she seated herself nervously on the extreme edge of 
a chair. She refused to utter a word at first, and then speech 
came with a rush. She explained her grounds for the belief that 
John Henry must be in trouble—John Henry was astounded. 
She outlined his reckless expenditure of the past weeks on eggs, 
and food, and otherwise—the face of Muggie became greatly soft¬ 
ened. She stated her conviction that he was incapable of looking 
after himself, or earning money like other men, and she hinted at 
her distrust of his writing propensities—George Cornwall was 
charmed and amused beyond words. She explained his absence 
for a night and his subsequent state of unrest, touching lightly 
on the letters that had received so much attention—Little David 
stirred uneasily in his chair and disappeared from sight behind 
his hands. She described his arrival in a cab in a damaged state, 
her own determination to act, his method of accepting the invita¬ 
tion to the Red House, his unsettled state previous to his departure, 
and her own resolution to follow and find out if he were, in truth, 
in the clutches of wicked people—they were all affected. All 
this she outlined with great clarity, in odd language, and with 
the simple, touching sincerity of absolute truth and honesty. Her 
tale came like a clean, fresh wind and swept away all the mists, 
misunderstandings, doubts, and fears brought to life by the 
presence of Little David. 

“I waited for a day,” said Veronica in conclusion, “and then 
I could wait no longer. I asked the missus for a day off, and 
perhaps a night too. She was astonished, but she could not 
refuse. I have not had a day off for years. I came down here 
and saw the house. Then I saw the stout gentleman”—George 
Cornwall started—“rush out suddenlike from the front door. Mr. 
John followed, held securely by a young man, and they stood by 
the gap in the hedge. I may have been mistaken but they seemed 


156 


LITTLE DAVID 


to be fighting. Mr. John tried to get away through the gap in the 
hedge, and then he was rushed back to the house. That was 
enough for me. I determined to get in, and when the maid 
stopped me I just went on. I am very sorry to have disturbed you 
all, but I could not do otherwise with the thoughts that have 
been in my head for weeks.” 

John Henry was exceedingly touched by the simple words of 
Veronica. 

“You are a dear, Veronica,” he said, “and I do not know quite 
what to say. I should have told you, long ago, that my book 
has been accepted and published. That is where the money 
came from.” 

Veronica stiffened and seemed stunned by astonishment. 

“Do people give you money for that?” she asked in a wondering 
voice. 

“They do—occasionally,” George Cornwall assured her. 

“Well I never did!” said Veronica. She seemed lost for a 
moment and then she recovered. “He will make heaps of money,” 
she said, “for he never does anything else. I’ve grown to hate 
the sight of paper and pens, watching him grow tired, and white, 
and weary, writing pages and pages; and then typing it all out 
again.” 

“If he works so hard,” said Sheila suddenly, “he wants some 
one to type and do the odd things for him. It would cut the work 
in two. George does that for father and I help them both. He 
could do more work with less trouble, and make more money into 
the bargain.” 

John Henry became reserved. 

“Veronica exaggerates,” he said with dignity. “I have scarcely 
written a word for weeks.” 

“I do not,” said Veronica. “You have been worried about 
something ever since you were away for a night, and that has kept 
you from writing. Once you get over that, you will start off 
again like a house on fire. I’m certain of it.” 


LITTLE DAVID AGAIN APPEARS 


157 


There was an interval of silence which John Henry felt impelled 
to break. 

“I have had a lot of worry of late—over my book,” he said 
austerely. “Then I saw the Dainty Brute and became worried 
about you,” he added without any trace of austerity, turning to 
Little David. 

“The Dainty Brute!” said Little David in alarm. “What did 
he tell you?” 

“Nothing,” said John Henry. “That was what worried me. 
I wanted to learn if you were out of trouble.” 

Little David appeared vastly relieved and Sheila made a 
statement. 

“Mr. Millman was taking Little David out of trouble on the 
night when he was away from home,” she said, apparently address¬ 
ing her remark to the fire. 

Veronica jumped and gasped. 

“Oh!” she said profoundly. “That explains everything.” She 
looked searchingly, first at Little David, and then at John Henry. 
“The poor innocent!” she added in a voice of pity. 

Now whether this last remark referred to John Henry, or to 
Little David, it is impossible to tell, for no one attempted to find 
out. John Henry merely preserved an air of calm dignity, and 
Little David—for some unknown reason—grew violently red in 
the face. 

“Little David,” continued Sheila, still addressing the fire, “is 
again in trouble. His father has turned him out—accused him 
of unspeakable things. Mr. Millman happened—by pure chance— 
to meet him walking along the road, and brought him here. We 
were just discussing what he is going to do—he cannot return 
home—when Veronica arrived.” 

A look of fright came on the faces of the two elder members 
of the Cornwall family, but they remained silent. Little David, 
possibly because the conversation was about him, had disappeared 
into the shadow of his chair. John Henry became absorbed in 


158 


LITTLE DAVID 


some profound cogitation or calculation. Veronica sat very tense 
on the edge of her chair and the contrite expression vanished from 
her face. She seemed fierce, prepared to fight as you might say, 
but she also remained silent. 

“Little David,” continued Sheila in the same meditative voice, 
“has a foster-mother, and it was to her that Mr. Millman took 
him on the previous occasion. Little David is very fond of her, 
but he is afraid to go there, for his father would know where 
he was. He does not know what to do, or where to go, or to 
whom to turn for help. He only wants to be allowed to live. 
So far he has not had a chance. That is all.” 

There was a period of silence, during which Veronica transferred 
her eyes to Little David’s chair with a stare of fierce antagonism. 
John Henry remained absorbed and lost. The entire Cornwall 
family waited with an air of expectation, and in the case of the 
elder members the expectation appeared to be mixed with appre¬ 
hension. Little David stirred in the shadow of his chair and 
then he rose to his feet. 

“I think it would be better if I went away at once,” he said 
quietly, and his face had grown suddenly white. “I wish to bring 
trouble to no one.” He made the same curious, helpless gesture 
with his hands. “I do not seem to be wanted—anywhere.” 

Each individual member of the Cornwall family negatived this 
idea. They made quite a chorus of it, and Sheila plumped Little 
David back into his chair with unnecessary violence. Veronica 
removed her eyes from him, and the antagonism had faded from 
her face, replaced by an expression far from antagonistic. John 
Henry, recalled by the noise from the distant vista he had been 
considering, uttered a remark in a meditative voice. 

“I think it could be managed,” he said. 

Veronica said shortly: “Small back breaking up badly.” 

This statement startled and puzzled the Cornwall family, but 
it seemed to afford John Henry the greatest enjoyment. 

“Are you quite certain?” he asked eagerly. 


LITTLE DAVID AGAIN APPEARS 


159 


“Quite!” said Veronica. “It will be all over by now.” 

“Then that settles it,” said John Henry. 

“Just what I’ve been thinking all along,” said Veronica, “only 
I was not sure at first that it would be a good thing. Now I think 
it will.” 

The Cornwall family, mystified, demanded an explanation of 
those remarks. Muggie in particular—she suffered from her back, 
poor soul—was exceedingly curious. 

“The small back has a communicating door with the large back, 
and I am the large back,” said John Henry. “It is a bad let in 
consequence, and the present man has been dissatisfied for weeks. 
I have been figuring out how he could be persuaded to go, but as 
Veronica says he has already determined to clear nut, there is no 
need to worry.” 

“Told Mrs. Baldwin that she was a dissipated cat,” murmured 
Veronica in a tone of excessive appreciation. 

“My landlady,” said John Henry in explanation, “not a bad 
soul, but she has her faults like other people.” 

“She has,” murmured Veronica and breathed hard. 

The Cornwall family, looking at one another in some surprise, 
waited for further enlightenment, but none was forthcoming. 

“Well—I” commenced George Cornwall in a voice of inquiry, 
but Sheila, jumping to her feet, cut him short. 

“You mean that Little David can have the small back,” she 
exclaimed in great excitement. 

“Why, of course!” said John Henry in an astonished voice. 
“Wherever did you think the boy was going, if he were not coming 
to me?” 

As George Cornwall said that night—there was a solemn con¬ 
clave in the sitting-room after John Henry was safe in bed at 
which Veronica assisted—it was about the only place where Little 
David could go—as Little David. 

Muggie had a good deal to say at this conclave, and her remarks 
were topped, finished off as you might say, by a gasping reference 


160 


LITTLE DAVID 


to the communicating door. Veronica, who had said a great deal 
about John Henry, uttered a few pregnant words on this very sub¬ 
ject as she left the room. She said: 

“The door has no handle and it is locked. The key will be 
lost, ten minutes after I get back, and it will not be found. There 
are a lot of old newspapers and an odd mattress lying in the 
cellar. There is no need to worry about that door so long as I 
am in the house—and I never leave it.” 

John Henry, utterly unconscious of the storm beneath, slept 
peacefully; and it did not occur to him to wonder where Little 
David was put up for the night in that small house. He was a 
very easy person to deal with in small matters was John Henry 
Millman, and an exceedingly trusting person so long as his 
suspicions were not aroused. When they were, well, he was not 
easy to deal with because, when he thought hard, he saw what 
other people see, and a great deal more to boot. 


CHAPTER XII 


THE DISTRESS OF THREE DECENT AND ORDINARY MEN 

Mabel Canning’s story was the essence of simplicity. It might 
aptly be called “The Tragedy of Two Straight Mouths”'—a tale 
about nothing, and it was full of pathos and unconscious humour 
as all exceedingly human tales are. There were no heroics, no 
stirring incidents in it, it was just a simple piece of life muddled 
by wise humanity—you can see the same thing anywhere, any 
time you care to look for it. Philip Canning had returned from 
London filled with the thought that John Henry Millman must 
be bound to his firm in bonds of interest and respect. Mabel 
Canning had returned from the Red House filled with a mixture 
of emotions that I shall not attempt to outline or explain. They 
were both preoccupied. In the late afternoon Mabel had a tele¬ 
phone message from young George speaking from the Black Bull 
at Tipping Horley. This increased her preoccupation. The 
father and daughter met at dinner and consumed that meal in 
silence. Near its termination Philip Canning had a sudden 
memory. Mabel had wished to ask or tell him something. He 
said abruptly: 

“You were going to ask, or tell me someting. You can do so 
now—if it is of any importance.” 

The tone of his voice implied that it could not be of importance 
—coming from Mabel. 

It was, apparently, of no importance. 

Mabel went to bed, at least she did not go to bed, but she spent 
the greater part of the night with her door locked, trying on the 
clothes of Little David. Philip Canning, having sat up late, 

161 


162 


LITTLE DAVID 


stepped out into the garden for a breath of air before going to 
bed. He was astonished to see the light still burning in Mabel’s 
room. There was the roof of a verandah directly under the 
window and the window was half open. It crossed Philip Can¬ 
ning’s mind that the house could very easily be burgled from that 
point. The thought drove him across the lawn till he stood before 
the window considering how one could reach it with very little 
trouble. As he was doing this a shadow came on the blind—the 
shadow of Mabel in the clothes of Little David. It appeared, 
unmistakably, to be the shadow of one in male attire. Philip 
Canning was petrified with astonishment. It was there for a bare 
second, however, and so he came to the conclusion that, with his 
mind running on burglars, his eyes were playing tricks. He 
waited for a little but the shadow did not return. He went back 
into the house. He was entirely unsuspicious, somewhat curious, 
and he wondered what the girl could be doing. His curiosity sent 
him softly to her door on the way to his room. 

He stood in the passage listening to the movements within, and 
he distinctly heard the sound of a laugh—a low, soft, exceedingly 
tender laugh. He was so astonished that he involuntarily attempted 
to open the door—it was locked. Immediately there came a 
startled gasp—a gasp of mingled fright, and fear, and apprehen¬ 
sion. The window crashed shut, and then there was absolute 
silence. 

“What on earth are you doing, child?” asked Philip Canning. 

The sound of her father’s voice completed Mabel’s panic. She 
crouched against the window—speechless. Her voice had fled. 

Philip Canning repeated his question with an added request to 
open the door. Mabel found her voice. 

“I—I can’t open the door. I’m going to bed. I have been 
doing nothing, nothing at all,” she gasped. “I was about to shut 
the window. You frightened me and it slipped from my fingers!” 

Philip Canning was reassured. He went away with a word of 
advice about girls being asleep at an early hour; but he thought 


THE DISTRESS OF THREE MEN 


163 


of the shadow on the blind after he had got into bed. It was all 
very curious. He thought also of the laugh which he had heard 
while standing in the passage and this reminded him that Mabel 
was only a child. A grown person, Philip Canning knew, does 
not laugh aloud in that fashion when no one is about. It would 
be absurd! There could be no reason for it! Philip Canning had 
a splendid supply of reason—the business had prospered in his 
hands. His mind reverted to the legal point which had kept him 
up so late ... he slept. 

Mabel did not sleep much that night. The thought of her 
father at the door while she was within dressed as Little David 
disturbed her by the narrowness of the escape from detection. She 
was filled with excitement at the thought of appearing as Little 
David at the Red House, of again seeing John Henry Millman; 
and she was oppressed—poor little soul—with a sense of guilt 
at the idea of deceiving her father. She even went the length of 
meditating a fresh attempt to win his interest, and an open con¬ 
fession to him of her strange escapades. She wondered if he would 
say anything at breakfast, and she meditated on what she could 
answer. All this tended to give her an appearance of guilt and 
shame. 

Philip Canning said nothing in the morning, as it happened, 
because there was a long letter from George Cornwall on the 
subject of John Henry Millman. He had decided to speak to Mabel, 
for the shadow on the blind still worried him, but he postponed 
the matter till after lunch. He was, in this, partly actuated by 
kindness because he could see that the girl was unhappy and 
uneasy. 

It was consideration on his part, but it was also exceedingly 
unfortunate. For one thing because, if he had mentioned the 
shadow, Mabel would have told him the entire story. For another 
because a third member of the household had been awake late on 
the previous night. 

He was astonished, on going to his study, to find the house- 


164 


LITTLE DAVID 


keeper there waiting for him. She was a stem, sexless woman 
greatly disliked by Mabel, and she had been in Philip Canning’s 
service for years. She stood with her back to the wall, her left 
hand concealed behind her back, and her expression was fierce, 
and grim, and exceedingly indignant. Philip Canning, although 
he was annoyed at the intrusion, realized from her face that she 
must have something serious to talk about. She had. 

It appeared that she had been unable to sleep on the previous 
night owing to a severe headache. She had turned and tossed 
for hours, and then she had thought that she heard some one 
moving about outside. She put this down to imagination, but 
the sound of a window closing with a crash she could not put down 
to imagination. She arose, assumed a dressing-gown and slippers, 
and going down stairs went over the rooms to see that no one was 
about. There was no one. In the conservatory off the drawing¬ 
room she happened to look up and was astounded to see a light 
in Mabel’s window. As she was reflecting on the carelessness of 
young girls, assured that Mabel was sound asleep, a shadow 
crossed the blind. The thought occurred to her that the girl 
might be ill and she went up at once to find out; but, once outside 
the door, this idea was dispelled by the sound of the opening, shut¬ 
ting, and locking of drawers. She wondered what the girl could 
be doing, then the light went out, and she heard her creep into 
bed. She was about to go away when she was arrested by the 
sound of Mabel’s voice. It was muffled and indistinct, and she 
had not caught all the words, but the sense of the remark was 
plain. Some one of the name of David had left something lying 
on the dressing-table. 

She attached no importance to this at the time, but continuing 
to be wakeful, remembering the crash of the window and the 
imagined sounds outside, she had grown exceedingly thoughtful. 
The memory of an occasion when she had seen Mabel emerge 
from a mean street in the town recurred to her mind. The girl— 
on being subsequently asked what she was doing there—had 


THE DPSTRESS OF THREE MEN 


165 


flushed, appeared startled, and offered a strange and obviously 
false excuse. She had thought nothing of it then, now she did. 
She determined to search the girl’s bedroom while she was in her 
bath. She had done so, and this was what she had found con¬ 
cealed under a pile of clothes in the wardrobe. 

The housekeeper, withdrawing her left hand from behind her 
back, thrust Little David’s hat—a man’s soft felt hat—under Philip 
Canning’s nose. Mabel, having locked away the clothes of Little 
David that she intended to wear on the next day, packed the rest 
in a suit-case, had left the hat lying on the dressing-table. Remem¬ 
bering this after she had got into bed, she had not rectified the 
omission; and rising late the next morning, she had hastily hidden 
it in the wardrobe. 

“I have often thought that Miss Mabel went very frequently to 
see her foster-mother,” said the housekeeper with a dry, hard 
cough. 

Under the circumstances, in view of what he himself had heard 
and witnessed on the previous night, Philip Canning can scarcely 
be blamed for what he said and did. It is true that most of the 
blame lay at his door, but the origin of the trouble went far 
further back than the present disturbance—back to the time when 
he was left with a motherless child on his hands, and onwards 
through long years of a thoughtless disregard. He was a decent 
man. He had a horror of lies and deceit—always placing business 
matters out of consideration—and his suspicions were thoroughly 
aroused. He refrained from telling the housekeeper that he him¬ 
self had been awake late on the previous night, and he asked her 
to remain in the room. He hoped that Mabel would be able to 
explain the matter in a satisfactory fashion, and he had no wish 
to blacken the case by added proof. His indignation was awakened 
to a full sense of the possible outrage to his impeccable respec¬ 
tability. 

He sent for Mabel and the summons by itself was sufficient to 
startle her. It was so unusual. She came. The sight of her 


166 


LITTLE DAVID 


father’s stern face and the forbidding countenance of the house¬ 
keeper increased her alarm. She stood before the desk in a for¬ 
lorn and frightened attitude, and the colour rose and fell rapidly 
in her cheeks. 

Philip Canning, perceiving this, frowned. He proceeded to ask 
her a number of questions, and her answers were not spontaneous 
because she failed to understand the reason for the questioning. 
The frown on Philip Canning’s face grew more apparent. Then 
he asked one question which startled her exceedingly. It was a 
full moment before she replied, and she avoided his eyes when she 
spoke and stared at the floor. 

Had she any friends—male friends—of whom he knew nothing ? 

It appeared that she had not, but the denial was uttered in an 
uncertain and hesitating voice. She was not a convincing liar. 
She lacked experience. 

The housekeeper thought fit to cough at this moment. 

Philip Canning’s face darkened and the line of his mouth grew 
very apparent. He went on with his questioning but the tone of his 
voice had altered completely. It was cold, and harsh, and 
peremptory. 

He asked what she had been doing in her room on the previous 
night, and to this she answered, in all sincerity, that she had been 
arranging her clothes—but she was a trifle confused. The next 
question took her completely by surprise. Had she been alone? 
She had been. She was quite certain of this? She was quite 
certain. Philip Canning remained silent for a long time, studying 
her face, and she grew exceedingly nervous. She did strange 
things with her hands. 

Quite suddenly he produced Little David’s hat from under the 
desk and asked for an explanation of its presence in her wardrobe. 
He did not ask if it belonged to her. The sight of the hat stunned 
Mabel, and the presence of the housekeeper increased the difficulty 
of an explanation. She stood silent, went hot and then cold, 
gasped, and finally asked to speak to him—alone. She had 


THE DISTRESS OF THREE MEN 


167 


determined to take her courage in both hands, make a last appeal, 
and tell him—everything. 

Philip Canning, watching her, felt suddenly sickened. His 
mouth closed like a trap on a blunt refusal, and he waited for her 
to speak. It may be remarked in passing that about this time 
the line of Mabel’s own mouth commenced to grow apparent. She 
remained silent, and then he commenced to speak himself in a calm, 
icy voice that made Mabel shudder. The words were not easy for 
his pride to utter, and he continued to hope that an explanation 
would be forthcoming to contradict and confute them. He said 
nothing about what he had seen and heard, that he kept to himself. 
This was unfortunate for it made the accusation appear doubly 
unkind and unjust. He did not think of this. It was the humilia¬ 
tion to his own pride that hurt him—then. 

He commenced by mentioning the incident of the box of cigar¬ 
ettes—the cigarettes she had denied having smoked. He said 
that her attitude, her manner of answering his questions, had filled 
him with distrust and suspicion. He mentioned that the house¬ 
keeper had been in his service for years—a servant of proved 
worth and integrity—and he outlined what she had told him, 
speaking with added assurance in face of his own experience of 
the previous night. Then he asked for an explanation that would 
reasonably cover these facts. If he had sent the housekeeper away 
and done this in a kindly voice, Mabel might have explained at 
once and in detail. As it was she remained dumb, staring at him 
in a stricken and horrified fashion, and the line of her mouth 
remained straight. 

The housekeeper thought fit to cough for the second time. 

That did it. Philip Canning’s wrath rose. He spoke and his 
voice was harsh and bitter. He accused Mabel of horrible things, 
of having a man in her room on the previous night, of living a life 
of lies and deceit; and in the middle of this a thought occurred 
to him that struck him dumb. He sat and stared at her with a 
dreadful inquiry, and she shook under his gaze. At that he rose 


168 


LITTLE DAVID 


and waved the housekeeper out of the room. He seized the shrink¬ 
ing girl by the shoulders, shook her with the violence of his own 
horror and despair, and put the thought that tormented him into 
words. 

“You were going to tell me something, what was it?” 

She had been going to tell him something. She had been trying 
to tell him something all her life—that she wanted to please, con¬ 
sider, and love him; but the accusation in his voice made this more 
than difficult now. She made the attempt—in spite of her mouth. 
She went dead white, but she met his eyes with a wide-open, pitiful 
stare. 

“Father!” she said humbly. “I am your daughter. Are you 
'blind or mad?” 

Philip Canning believed that his worst fears had received con¬ 
firmation. He thrust her away from him with violence. He lifted 
the hat from off the desk and flung it in her face. 

“Go away!” he said bitterly. “You are no daughter of mine 
to bring shame on my name. You baggage!” 

Mabel went. She went straight to her room, holding Little 
David’s hat in her hand. She was dazed, stunned, almost uncon¬ 
scious of what she was doing; yet she acted rapidly and with 
precision. She unlocked a drawer and changed into the clothes of 
Little David. She adjusted the contraption, made of her own hair 
when it had been cut short, procured for the fancy dress at school, 
and used since then on many occasions. She put away her dis¬ 
carded clothes, and she did all this mechanically as if to the 
bidding of an unseen party. She took an old frock and a battered 
hat from the wardrobe, tied them up in a parcel, seized the suit¬ 
case packed on the previous night, and walked down the stairs, 
across the drawing-room, through the open conservatory door, out 
at the side gate in the wall. No one saw her go. 

She went to the town by the short cut through the fields. She 
took a ticket for London, but she arrived at Tipping Horley. The 
ticket remained in her purse. The ancient porter, recognising Little 


THE DISTRESS OF THREE MEN 


169 


David in great distress, allowed her to pass through the station 
without question. She walked straight from the train, through the 
village, along the country roads, encountered John Henry Millman 
and went on with him into the sitting-room of the Red House; 
and there, as has already been stated, she fainted. All these things 
she did mechancially, and almost without any volition on her own 
part. She might, as a matter of fact, have been walking in her 
sleep. 

You will readily understand that Little David’s version of 
Mabel Canning’s story—told at the conclave while John Henry 
slept in the room above—was sufficiently bald and touching to stir 
the hearts of such foolish people as the Cornwall family and 
Veronica; while it also aroused a certain atmosphere of dislike for 
Philip Canning, and a feeling that it would be well for Littlq 
David to avoid seeing him for a time. 

He—good and decent man—was sickened and shaken to the core. 
The prospect of facing his household, of meeting his respectable 
friends, of entering the offices of Canning and Canning, of en¬ 
countering the respectful glances of Ralph Seymour and Sinclair 
Dodds; and of seeing in all these eyes, on all these faces, a knowl¬ 
edge of his daughter’s shame, was more than he could think of 
with calmness. Philip Canning was half demented. He sat and 
stared at the fire. He stood and stared at the pictures on the wall. 
He sat and held his head in his hands—all with the same result. 
He could not think. The name of Canning was disgraced for 
ever. Canning and Canning of impeccable business fame! 

It was very sad! Oh, exceptionally sad! It really was—when 
you consider that this was all he thought of for more than two 
hours! 

At the end of that time there was a knock at the door and the 
housekeeper entered. She stood just inside the room, and she 
stood sideways so that it was impossible for her to see him. 

“I came in to say, sir, that I slept very soundly last night; and 
I have no recollection of being in your study this morning. I 


170 


LITTLE DAVID 


have been a great number of years in your service, and I know 
what is due to one who has always treated me with justice. I had 
to speak—for your own good, but I do not talk of what does not 
concern me. I am your servant and shall do just what you please.” 

“I shall talk 'to you presently,” said Philip Canning, and he 
writhed in his chair. 

The housekeeper departed. Her words had humiliated Philip 
Canning on account of the fact that she was in a position to utter 
them—to him; but they also brought a certain consolation. The 
matter was not so black as it had at first appeared. No one knew 
anything about it. There was no reason why any one should know 
anything about it. Such matters could be arranged. The house¬ 
keeper would be a continual reproach to face, but her loyalty was 
absolute. A ray of hope dawned on his mind. He was enabled— 
possibly by means of the light of the said ray—to think coherently, 
to realize the overwhelming wrong to his dignity, and the disgrace 
attached to one who bore his name. His anger stirred afresh and he 
experienced a strong desire to go and seek Mabel, to tell her what 
he thought, to make her feel a part of what he was suffering. 
He brooded over this and he was glad—for the first time—that 
his wife was dead. He thought of her, wondering what she would 
have done, and his mind became confused. He made an attempt 
to face the problem of what he should do, and he found that it 
was impossible. He did not know what to do. He did not even 
know what to think or feel. 

The earthquake, which Philip Canning had been tempting 
Providence to supply for years, had arrived; and he was conse¬ 
quently somewhat shattered. If it had been a matter of pure 
business, if all the electric wires in his big house had fused with 
the added complication of fire, if Ralph Seymour in a moment of 
lunacy had said what he thought in place of hinting at what he 
imagined was in his employer’s mind, if anything that could be 
dealt with within the ordered routine of his life had occurred, 
then he would have acted with accuracy and despatch; but over 


THE DISTRESS OF THREE MEN 


171 


this problem he stumbled and halted. It was very natural that 
he should do so, for the problem touched a part of him that he had 
lost sight of for a great number of years—his heart to wit. He 
did not think of this. He did not even dream that it was the case. 

He succeeded, eventually, in considering the matter in the light 
of reason; and then he thought out a plan that seemed just—to 
him, and that also suited himself as well. The girl must leave 
home at once. He would compensate her foster-mother for the 
trouble, expense, and the necessity of keeping her mouth shut. 
The pair of them must go to some quiet place and stay there. His 
daughter would be away from home on account of her health. He 
experienced a sensation of relief, but he did not appear at lunch. 
He could not face Mabel, and he had no desire for food. 

It never once entered his head that the girl might have taken his 
words in a literal sense and gone out of his house and his life at 
one and the same time. He was too fully obsessed with the 
necessity of keeping a knowledge of her actions hidden from the 
outside world, so that his life might go on in its accustomed, 
honoured, and well-oiled groove, to think of anything so wildly 
improbable as that. The thought, however, occurred to the house¬ 
keeper. She had always disliked Mabel, but she knew that—like 
her father—she had a fund of determination. She was unable to 
escape from memories of the girl as a child, too; and this, some¬ 
how, altered her fierce antagonism against her. She went to her 
room and found that she was not there. She searched the house 
with a like result, and she grew alarmed. 

Philip Canning sent for her, and she wished that she had not 
made her statement about forgetting everything. She wanted to 
tell him of her fears, but the sight of his face, his conversation, and 
the obvious fact that such a thought had not occurred to him, 
made this difficult. She experienced a sudden sense of resentment. 
She would have been better pleased if he had been blazing with 
anger. The man had no right to be so self-possessed in his obvious 
State of humiliation and discomfort. 


172 


LITTLE DAVID 


He spoke to her calmly, dispassionately. He thanked her for 
her words and explained that he would not forget them. He went 
on to state that matters were not so bad as she had thought—his 
face twitched at this and she suddenly realized just how bad he 
believed them to be. There had been misunderstandings. He made 
several ineffectual attempts to utter Mabel’s name, and failed; 
and finally said that he was about to write to Mrs. Bluebell. The 
letter would be taken that afternoon by hand to the foster-mother. 
He did not say by whose hand, but the inference was plain. She 
would explain to any one who cared to ask that it was a matter of 
health—the doctor had advised a complete and protracted change 
of air and surroundings. 

After she had gone he set himself to write this letter, but it 
proved a difficult task. He commenced one letter and ended by 
tearing it up in a fury. He commenced afresh and that one lay 
on the desk while his fingers broke the pen in pieces. He seized 
a fresh pen, set his teeth and commenced again, but the written 
words seemed to rise up and hit him in the face. He went through 
a period of acute physical nausea—the lunch gong had sounded 
disregarded a long time past, and his habits were too regular for 
him to have any but a healthy appetite. Finally he decided that 
he could not write the letter. He would speak to Mabel. The idea 
of facing her filled him with a mixture of feelings that he was un¬ 
able fully to comprehend. He shrank from the ordeal, but he had 
determination. He rang the bell. 

Miss Mabel was out. She had not, it seemed, put in an appear¬ 
ance at lunch. It was impossible to say where she had gone, or 
when she would return. The housemaid—a kindly soul very fond 
of Mabel—made a point of explaining that she frequently went 
out but always stated where she was going and when she would 
return—in case some one asked. No one ever had asked. It 
was unfortunate that on this occasion she had departed from her 
usual custom. 

It was. It appeared to Philip Canning’s mind as an act of 


THE DISTRESS OF THREE MEN 


173 


rank disobedience, a deliberate flouting of his authority. The 
girl belonged to him. She had no right to absent herself at a 
time when her presence might be required at any moment. He gave 
instructions that she was to be sent to him the moment she returned, 
and he refused to admit the fact that he was grateful for the 
temporary respite. He was, however, and then a disguised curse 
came his way that he looked on in the light of a blessing. 

The electric plant—his beloved toy—went out of gear. He set 
himself to overhaul it completely. He was too intent and busy 
to think. He had a snack sent in to him at dinner-time. He 
worked . . . moderately happy. 

It was all very sad. 

A little before ten o’clock he entered his study, physically tired, 
but mentally refreshed by his labours; and the necessity of dealing 
with Mabel arose like a black cloud on the horizon. He paused 
in the act of ringing the bell. He had left instructions for the 
girl to come to him. She would appear now that his task was 
ended. He fingered the pile of letters from the evening post and 
was astonished to find one there addressed to Mable—slipped in 
with the others by mistake no doubt. He studied the envelope. 
The writing was sprawling and illiterate, and the post-mark was 
London. A frown gathered on his brow. He hesitated for a 
second, tore open the envelope, and read. 

The letter was peculiar, undated, and unaddressed. It started 
and ended without preamble, and it was all mixed up—like the 
ingredients of a pudding in the making. 

It said: 

“Fammy wants to tell her dearest child that she is here for a 
few days on business leastwise she thinks it will be a few days 
now although she did not then. Fammy has been thinking a lot 
about the cigarettes and other things and she says that it will all 
come out in the washing and that nothing matters if the blankets 
keep clean meaning by that you and your blessed image of a father. 
Fammy has never spoken disrespectfully of him before but she 


174 


LITTLE DAVID 


thinks that the cigarettes were too bad. She says that there must 
be no more pranks or goings about and she sends her love to her 
dearest Mabel for she knows that she wants all she can get.” 

There was a last sentence added, apparently, as an afterthought. 

“Don’t stop trying to please him, dearie, for Fammy says it will 
all come right.” 

Philip Canning read this letter once and gathered that it was 
from Mabel’s foster-mother. He read it a second time and 
gathered a strong impression that the tone of it was disrespectful 
to himself. He read it for a third time and the last sentence sent 
him to the bell. He disregarded the rest. He wanted to know 
who the “him” was that Fammy advised Mabel to please. 

The housekeeper came in answer to the summons, and she 
appeared disturbed and unhappy. 

“Send Miss Mabel to me,” he said shortly. 

“Miss Mabel has not been in all day,” said the housekeeper 
respectfully. “I shall send her to you if she returns.” 

“Not in yet!” said Philip Canning in rising wrath and amaze¬ 
ment. “You will send her to me if she returns! What do you 
mean, woman?” 

“I think Miss Mabel has gone for good, sir,” said the house¬ 
keeper, apprehensively, but with the conviction of belief. “She is 
very determined when once she takes a notion into her head.” 

“Gone for good!” said Philip Canning in a startled voice. 
“Gone for—nonsense! What makes you suspect such an 
absurdity?” 

“Because she has taken nothing—not even the dress she was 
wearing this morning—except for an old frock and hat given her 
by a friend at school. She must have walked out of the house 
without even a coat on her back. I know all her clothes, and they 
are all there.” 

Philip Canning’s face went a curious grey colour, and the letter 
from Fammy crumpled into a ball in his hand. 

“She will have gone to her foster-mother,” said the housekeeper, 


THE DISTRESS OF THREE MEN 


175 


glancing at him with compassion. “There is no other place that 
she could go to. I knew that she would be safe there or I would 
have told you sooner.” 

Philip Canning rose unsteadily to his feet and waved the woman 
out of the room. 

“Go away!” he said hoarsely. “Leave me alone for a time. I 
must think!” 

Fammy, he knew, was in London; and Mabel had not returned. 
He had told her to go away, and she had taken his words literally, 
leaving all the belongings that came from him behind her. She 
might have gone—anywhere. The thought appalled him, but his 
uttered words were more appalling still. 

“This must not be known!” he whispered. 

He stood, stupefied by the suddenness of it all, and then a 
thought came to him. 

“She bears my name. She belongs to me. I must try to find 
her!” he muttered, but his soul seethed with the bitterness of 
humiliated pride. s 

He went to the telephone and spoke to the police. He sent for 
the car and told the man to leave it at the front door. He wished 
to go out by himself. He spent the night out of doors, and returned 
in the grey dawn of morning after a fruitless search, and in his 
mind he raged at the cause of the disturbance. He crept into bed, 
tired and weary, oppressed with a sense of a disastrous day; but 
it was far from a disastrous day for him. It was a very fortunate 
day indeed, for it set his feet on a road—a long road it is true 
and exceedingly stony at the outset, one along which he had far to 
travel in pain and discomfort, but still one well worth travelling on. 
He had set foot on the road to his own heart. He had found out 
that he had lost something, something that had not previously 
existed within the limits of his life. 

You will readily understand that all efforts to trace what had 
become of Mabel Canning proved fruitless. She had vanished. 
She had. This can the more readily be understood when you come 


176 


LITTLE DAVID 


to think that Philip Canning contrived to keep the matter secret 
from his household, his friends, and his acquaintances. The 
thought that Mabel might have fled to the Red House occurred to 
him, but he did not ask if she were there. He sent a plain-clothes 
detective over to Tipping Horley, however, and his report dis¬ 
pelled that idea. The ancient porter at the station did not even 
mention the arrival of Little David. As for the small maid of all 
work at the Red House, to whom the man of guile made amatory 
advances, she thought that he had fallen a victim to her charms 
and her artless information was rendered useless by feminine 
delight. She did not suspect that she had been cleverly tapped; but 
she did catch a cold waiting for the plain-clothes man in the rain 
on the subsequent evening. Philip Canning’s silence did more to 
make George Cornwall and Muggie think favourably of Little 
David’s existence and absence than anything else. As for Fammy 
she was infuriated and would not have helped Philip Canning if 
the King had asked her on bended knee—these are her own words. 

It was all very pitiful, rather humorous, and exceedingly human. 

Philip Canning continued to attend to the affairs of Canning and 
Canning; and one day he went up to London. Coming up in the 
underground lift at Paddington station, he found himself jammed 
against a girl he seemed to know. That she recognised him was 
obvious, for she tried to get away; but the crowd made this impos¬ 
sible. He stared at her. Then his face darkened and he frowned. 
It was Emma, the young housemaid, dismissed for undue famil¬ 
iarity with Mabel. The thought crossed his mind that she might 
be the originator of the trouble, and he regarded her with furious 
distaste. 

She saw this and laughed. Then she spoke in a mocking voice. 
It was most disconcerting in the lift, full of well-dressed, seemly 
people. 

“Give my love to Miss Mabel when you get home,” she said. 
“Don’t forget, for it is little of that she will find in your house,” 
and she disappeared through the opening gates. 


THE DISTRESS OF THREE MEN 


177 


Philip Canning was furious, but a sense of justice reminded 
him that the girl had been dismissed without a character for no act 
of evil. Women, he knew, remembered to bear resentment. Long 
afterwards he came to look on Emma’s remark with gratitude, but 
at the time he did not. He was unable to get away from the 
incident. He felt assured that Emma knew of Mabel’s flight; 
that, perhaps, she was aware of where the girl was now. Her 
words buzzed in his head. They sent him back to a re-reading 
of the letter from Fammy. He sat up late, in deep thought, and 
that night before he went to bed he had advanced quite a distance 
down the stony road on which his feet were set. He went on 
travelling, day by day, and the box of cigarettes emerged at 
intervals from the drawer where it lay hidden. He did not smoke 
the cigarettes. He just looked at the box and thought. 

The result of his thoughts nearly ended the life of Ralph Sey¬ 
mour in what would have been a painful, and yet a fitting, fashion. 
As for Sinclair Dodds he dribbled at the mouth, if such a thing 
may be said of a grown man, and a somewhat dry one at that. 

These two gentlemen were seated, one morning, not in the room 
of harrowing memories to John Henry Millman and many other 
simple souls, but in a smaller, brighter, and more cheerful apart¬ 
ment in which there was nothing impressive, little that was not both 
useful and comforting, and a total absence of office fittings. They 
sat, one on either side of a small table in the middle of the floor, 
and they both leant back to the full capacity of their chairs which 
were obviously designed for comfort. Ralph Seymour sat facing 
the door and Sinclair Dodds sat facing Ralph Seymour. Ralph 
Seymour was meditatively engaged in biting a pen in the middle, 
and Sinclair Dodds was energetically engaged in talking with con¬ 
siderable animation. 

“The change,” said Sinclair Dodds, waving his hand by way of 
emphasis, “grows more marked every time I see him. I tell you 
there must be something radically wrong. The last time he was 
here, I caught him looking at the girl in the office as if she were 


178 


LITTLE DAVID 


a human being. I do not like it at all. There is no saying what he 
might do next. He might alter his invariable routine, come up one 
morning without warning, and walk in here! What would we do 
then?” 

Philip Canning never came to the office, of a morning, unless on 
a matter of important business already discussed and arranged by 
letter or telephone. He came occasionally, in the afternoon if he 
happened to be in Town; but that was all. 

“What indeed!” said Ralph Seymour, gazing meditatively over 
Sinclair Dodds’ head, and at the door. He bit hard on his pen, 
and at that moment the door opened and the subject of the con¬ 
versation walked in. 

It was a narrow escape for Ralph Seymour, for the pen snapped 
in his mouth, and his gasp of astonishment and dismay sent the 
one half an inconvenient distance down his throat. He coughed it 
up, however, which was a good thing; only for a publisher to 
die, choked by a pen, seems a seemly and fitting end. Sinclair 
Dodds, swinging round to gain a sight of the intruder, simply—as 
has already been stated—dribbled at the mouth. The two unfor¬ 
tunate gentlemen made a valiant attempt to assume the accustomed 
dignity of their calling; but it was no good. In that room they 
were not wont to be publishers. They were merely men. It was 
a very necessary and useful place of relaxation, but its existence, 
as such, was unknown to Philip Canning. 

“Good morning, gentlemen, please do not move,” said Philip 
Canning. 

The two gentlemen did not move. They would have been at a loss 
to know what to do if they had. It was the first time that they had 
appeared before their senior partner and owner as men, and they 
were consequently greatly discomfited. The extraordinary part— 
as Sinclair Dodds subsequently remarked—was that Philip Can¬ 
ning also appeared to be a man. This struck them both a second 
after he had entered the room, but they refused to credit the testi¬ 
mony of their eyes, ears, and senses. In this they cannot be blamed, 


THE DISTRESS OF THREE MEN 


179 


for they did not know that the fetish of Philip Canning’s life— 
Canning and Canning of unimpeachable fame—was in danger of 
being displaced and shattered. 

There was a straight-backed chair by the window and on this 
Philip Canning sat down with the air of one who was very weary 
and depressed, but who yet had succeeded in perceiving something 
that had for long eluded his sight. He regarded his two partners 
and his two partners regarded him. There was an awkward silence 
during which he seemed to be trying to say something and failing 
in the attempt. Then he asked Ralph Seymour a question, and 
it is not to be wondered that the poor man was startled. 

“Have you any children, Mr. Seymour?” 

“I have not. I am not married!” said Ralph Seymour in a gasp 
of agony. 

Philip Canning seemed disappointed. He turned to Sinclair 
Dodds. 

“And you, Mr. Dodds?” he inquired. 

“I have four—three boys and a girl,” said Sinclair Dodds 
uneasily, not quite certain how this admission would be taken. 

“How old is the girl?” asked Philip Canning, and he seemed 
curious to know. 

Sinclair Dodds became confused. His memory played tricks 
with him. 

“Let me see,” he said. “They grow up so quickly. It seems 
only yesterday that she was a school-girl worrying me to play 
tennis on the hottest of afternoons. She must be about twenty, I 
think, if my memory is correct.” 

Philip Canning sighed. 

“I had— I have a daughter but she is lost,” he said, enunciating 
the “have” with great distinctness and some apparent difficulty. 
“It would be very painful for me to speak to my friends on the 
subject and—I have failed to find her. I have come to ask for 
your advice—if you are willing to give it.” 

As Sinclair Dodds remarked that night to his wife—a cheery, 


180 


LITTLE DAVID 


buxom little soul who regarded him in the light of a long, thin 
child—it was not an easy speech for a human being to utter, lay 
aside a precise, machine-like creation of money and a high business 
standing. 

He did not think out this speech at the time. That came later on 
with the idea of impressing his wife. He was astounded, abso¬ 
lutely deprived of the power of speech; and so was Ralph Seymour. 
They sat and stared at their much feared, and greatly revered—in 
a business sense—senior partner, and he sat like a humble peti¬ 
tioner awaiting a favourable answer. They knew that Philip Can¬ 
ning had a daughter—not that he had ever mentioned the fact, but 
this . . . ! 

“I—have—been—perhaps—unkind,” said Philip Canning, 
enunciating each word as if it required a separate effort to be 
uttered. He was silent, for a moment, and then he went on more 
easily. “I have not wished to be unkind, but I have not thought.” 
He turned to Sinclair Dodds and made a curious, helpless gesture 
with his hands, oddly reminiscent of the gesture of Little David. 
“I have never played tennis on a hot afternoon. I have never made 
it possible for any one to ask me to do so.” 

The two junior partners acted in concord and without thought. 
They rose from their seats, and each grasping a hand of their senior 
partner, shook it warmly. Then they returned to their chairs and 
looked accusingly and sheepishly at each other. They were, with¬ 
out doubt, men, who—according to the wife of Sinclair Dodds— 
sometimes do the the right thing at the right moment. 

“Thank you, gentlemen,” said Philip Canning. “I shall not 
forget this.” 

Ralph Seymour found his voice. 

“You have always treated us with justice and generosity, Mr. 
Canning!” he said, defending Philip Canning against himself. 

“Perhaps—in a strictly business sense,” said Philip Canning. 

The partners were again stricken dumb. The truth is paralyzing 
at times. They recovered sufficiently, however, to listen with 


THE DISTRESS OF THREE MEN 


181 


intelligence to the tale Philip Canning unfolded;, but they were 
too dumbfounded by the entire business to be able to give much 
advice when the last of it had been told. Ralph Seymour remarked 
that, since the girl had not appeared at her foster-mother’s, the 
prospect was very black indeed; and that was as far as he could 
go at the moment. 

The remark disclosed a curious fact. Philip Canning had not 
approached the foster-mother on the subject. He had approached 
no one that he knew. He said so himself and gave no reason for it. 
It was the case and he wished it to continue. He had come to 
them . . . ! 

As Sinclair Dodds said subsequently, there was more of the old 
Adam left than he had at first suspected. There was. Philip 
Canning had travelled a long way down his stony road but he had 
still a great distance to cover, and the way grew rougher in place 
of being easier—also his feet grew tired, and weary, and more 
easily pained. 

It was merely life. 

The three men sat and discussed the matter for a long time, but 
they failed to arrive at a satisfactory solution of the difficulty of 
knowing how best to act. It was an immense relief to Philip Can¬ 
ning to share his burden with others; and his altered bearing 
showed this. The problem, however, appeared to be too complex 
to even admit of a feasible line of action. On all sides they were 
hedged in by Philip Canning’s desire for privacy and—when 
possible—secrecy; and since the police had failed, what remained? 

Sinclair Dodds, feeling—with a daughter of his own—that it 
was up to him to make some brilliant suggestion, addled his 
already startled faculties to such an extent that he was unable to 
think coherently. In this state there came to him a sudden memory 
of John Henry Millman, Little David, and the Dainty Brute, 
with the crowd around them. He had an insane inspiration. 

“My advice,” he said with an air of conviction that carried 
weight, “is to confide the entire story—here in this room—to John 


182 


LITTLE DAVID 


Henry Millman. He, I imagine, is more fitted than most men to 
give advice on the subject. You remember the day when he saw 
him in the street with the boy, Mr. Seymour ?” 

Ralph Seymour sat up with interest. 

“I do. I think it a most excellent plan,” he said with unexpected 
assurance, “if Mr. Canning has no objections. No names need be 
mentioned. He will not ask or be curious as most people would. 
He will just accept what we say, and he will be vividly interested— 
of that I am assured. John Henry Millman is much more fitted to 
advise on a matter like this than we; he has imagination in plenty.” 

They described how they had witnessed John Henry free Little 
David from the Dainty Brute. They did not describe Little 
David’s appearance, for, in truth, they had not seen much of him. 

The idea was repugnant to Philip Canning and he said so, at 
once, without hesitation. To appeal to his friends was an idea from 
which he shrank, but to appeal to John Henry Millman was far 
worse. It appeared to him in the light of an absolute humiliation 
of Canning and Canning, and that was more than he could face 
with calmness. The thought that he had a daughter had grown 
very large in his mind, and it was a pleasant thought, though also 
hurtful because she was lost; but he had a long distance to travel 
along his stony road. He scouted the idea as absurd. Remnants 
of the old Philip Canning commenced to show in his manner and 
bearing. He thanked the two partners for their attention and 
consideration. He expressed the hope that they might see light 
in the matter, but he made it very apparent that it was told in the 
deepest of confidence. They would not talk . . . ! The 

matter almost assumed a business aspect. 

They did not talk. Sinclair Dodds went home and immediately 
explained the entire interview in detail to his wife; and Ralph 
Seymour cornered an old friend at his club and kept him enthralled 
for a matter of two hours; but that was nothing. It was merely 
human nature. They did not talk, and the matter remained secret. 

Philip Canning did not forget their advice in relation to John. 


THE DISTRESS OF THREE MEN 


183 


Henry Millman. He continued to explain, to any one who asked, 
that his daughter was abroad on account of her health. The house¬ 
keeper saw to it that the curiosity of the maids was adequately 
satisfied. Very few people did ask. They had no interest in her. 
She had always been kept in the background. This was fortunate 
for Philip Canning—after a fashion. 

The two partners, discussing the astounding business next 
morning, avoided any mention of Sinclair Dodd’s suggestion. 
They seemed, in fact, to be half ashamed of it, and each afraid of 
what the other might think; for if the idea had been conceived 
by Sinclair Dodds, Ralph Seymour had given his heartiest 
approval. They skirted the subject, for a time, and then Ralph 
Seymour made a sudden plunge. 

“It would be a curious letter to emanate from the offices of 
Canning and Canning,” he said. “The letter asking John Henry 
Millman to call on a purely personal matter, I mean. It was, 
perhaps, a mad thought, but there are aspects about it which are 
decidedly sound, although somewhat remarkable.” 

There were aspects about the case which made it more remark¬ 
able still, but neither Ralph Seymour nor Sinclair Dodds, or 
indeed Philip Canning himself, had the faintest knowledge or 
suspicion of them. 

Sinclair Dodds saw one aspect, however, that had not occurred 
to Ralph Seymour. 

“I believe,” he said, “that it would prove a better method of 
securing Millman to our firm than any other plan we could imagine 
or think of. Not that I thought of it at the time. I did not think 
at all. I just spoke.” 

This, taking John Henry Millman’s peculiarities into due con¬ 
sideration, was little but the simple truth. He was very much 
attached to men and women, as such, was John Henry Millman; 
and men and women are rather fine creatures—when you arrive 
at them and pierce through the mists of self-interest behind which, 
as a general rule, they stand concealed. 


CHAPTER XIII 


IN WHICH LITTLE DAVID NEARLY DISAPPEARS 

Little David left the Red House early on the morning after the 
solemn conclave in the sitting-room; and journeyed up to London 
along with Veronica, the suit-case, the brown paper parcel, the 
good wishes of the entire Cornwall family—the doubts and fears 
of the two elder members included, and the hearty regards of John 
Henry Millman. The quaint pair travelled in safety, and when he 
crossed the threshold of John Henry’s abode the first thing that Lit¬ 
tle David saw was the ample figure of Fammy emerging from a door 
at the end of the passage. The sight delighted Little David and 
he would have rushed straight into her arms, had he not remem¬ 
bered that he was Little David, a person to whom Fammy most 
strongly objected. The sight did not delight Veronica, for Fammy 
was emerging from the room commonly known as the “small back.” 
Veronica, in fact, regarded her with great disfavour. 

Fammy appeared to be annoyed. 

“Them bells!” she said. “If someone does not answer them I 
shall go down and cut out the tongues. I never heard such a row 
in my life!” 

“Bells,” said Veronica shortly, “were made to be rung. There 
is no harm in that. You will soon get accustomed to them. I am. 
They never trouble me.” 

“Who are you?” inquired Fammy fiercely, although it was dark 
in the passage. 

“I am the one that answers them,” said Veronica with composure, 
“and as I’ve been away for a day and a night I expect they have 
been ringing most of the time.” 


184 


LITTLE DAVID NEARLY DISAPPEARS 


185 


“They have/’ said Fammy. “They just have—like Bedlam!” 

“They will continue to ring,” said Veronica with great distinct¬ 
ness, “for a long time to come, so I advise you to clear out if you 
object to the row.” 

“Well I never!” said Fammy, commencing to bridle. “So this 
is London manners, is it?” 

“For you—yes!” said Veronica. “If you take my advice you will 
leave at once.” 

Fammy’s indignation was thoroughly aroused and what would 
have transpired between the pair is hard to imagine, but Little 
David could stand it no longer. 

“Veronica,” he said, “you must not speak like that to Fammy. 
She is my foster-mother!” 

He came and stood before Fammy in a contrite and penitent 
fashion. 

Fammy nearly fainted. 

She said: “Lord have mercy upon us!” and raised her hands 
to heaven. She gazed and gasped: “Whatever are you doing 
here at this time of the morning?” She seized Little David by the 
arm, dragged him forcibly into the small back, and ejaculated: 
“It is the little wretch right enough!” She sat down on the edge 
of the bed, beat her hands together in a frenzy, and asked: “What 
has she gone and done now? Where has she been all night? 
What is she doing along with this image with the sharp tongue? 
Oh my! Oh my!” 

Fortunately Fammy did all this in a subdued and muted fashion 
as if she were not quite certain that she was doing anything at all. 
It was also fortunate that the bells kept on ringing all the time, 
otherwise the attention of someone else in that crowded house 
might have been aroused. 

Fammy relapsed into a shaking silence, and Little David 
unexpectedly asked a question. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked. 

Fammy snapped out: “Never mind!” and went on shaking. 


186 


LITTLE DAVID 


Veronica said from the door: “If he would think I am safe to 
leave you with her, I’ll do it. Them bells will grow angry in a 
minute,” and she waited for Little David to reply. 

Fammy rose in wrath. 

“If he would think you are safe to leave—!” she gasped, and 
words failed her. She snatched up a large and ancient umbrella 
and advanced on Veronica, but that wise person, disappearing with 
celerity, closed the door behind her. 

Fammy turned to Little David and shook the umbreela in his 
face. 

“He!” she said. “What he, may I ask?” 

“Sit down, Fammy, and let me tell you everything,” said Little 
David. “I am Little David now in real truth for Mabel Canning 
is dead. Her father has turned her out.” 

Fammy dropped the umbrella and seized the slender figure in 
her arms. 

“My precious!” she exclaimed in a tone of horror, “and your 
old Fammy was away from home at the time! She was not there 
to take you in and make you welcome; and she up here thinking it 
might be for your own good too!” 

Towards the latter end of this utterance Little David’s arms 
—for some reason unknown—closed in a much tighter grip 
round Fammy’s neck, and he kissed that good soul on the 
lips. 

Whereupon Fammy said sharply: “I came up on business. 
I wrote you a letter too, yesterday morning, but perhaps you did 
not get it.” Her voice altered and became tender and caressing. 
“Tell me all about it,” she said in the tone of voice that a human 
being hears from one person only—the woman to whose breasts it 
has clung for food. 

Little David told her. He was still hard at it when Veronica 
appeared with a very nice breakfast for two on a tray, and a 
particularly fierce expression on her face. Fammy was nearly 
the death of both breakfasts. She rose suddenly and insisted on 


LITTLE DAVID NEARLY DISAPPEARS 


187 


shaking hands with Veronica in the most assured and friendly 
fashion. 

Veronica said: “This is to be his room,” and she pointed 
to Little David. “There is a cupboard where I can sleep next door. 
You can have my room, and he is in there. That is why I spoke 
about the bells. If you had not been yourself they would still have 
been ringing. They would have gone on ringing till you cleared 
out. See 1” 

“I see,” said Fammy, “and I want to shake that hand of yours 
again for the same reason. Not that I agree to anything—that 
is a different matter. I want to hear all about it first of all.” 

“He will be coming up later on in the day,” said Veronica. 

“WhatI The blind man!” said Fammy, looking at Little 
David in some alarm. 

“Blind man!” said Veronica in sudden anger. “If it is Mr. 
John you mean, I’ll not listen to it!” 

“Well,” said Fammy, indicating Little David, “he was blind. 
I’ll not say but what he might not be accused of blindness now, 
but if you had seen-!” 

“Don’t be so horrid, Fammy,” said Little David interrupting. 
“It is not fair to allow Veronica’s nice breakfast go cold.” 

“All right,” said Fammy to Veronica, “I will not say it again. 
I will think it instead. Not that I wish him to be otherwise—far 
from it. It’s a mercy, as it happens, that he is, well—simple, if 
that pleases you better.” 

Veronica looked mutinous but, as she could take no exception 
to the tone of Fammy’s voice, she went away. 

“You eat first and tell me afterwards,” advised Fammy wisely. 
“You will be better able to speak, and I will have more sense to 
listen and not agree.” 

Little David did this. He also explained, very clearly, that it 
would be impossible to go home with Fammy and still avoid meet¬ 
ing Philip Canning or any one else connected with him. 

“I am to stay here—for a little time at any rate,” he said in 



188 


LITTLE DAVID 


conclusion. “I am not afraid to do so either for myself or for any 
other reason. I want time to think of what I must do. I shall 
work, too, for I can type and do shorthand. I learnt that when I 
thought it might please father.” He paused and sighed. “I did try 
to please him, Fammy,” he said, and his eyes filled with tears. 
“I tried hard, but it was no good.” 

“Of all the wild schemes!” said Fammy, when she had replied 
suitably to the tail end of Little David’s statement. “I never heard 
one to equal it. The Cornwalls must be mad!” 

“They know him, you see. You do not,” said Little David, as 
if this explained everything. “Then they know I am here and 
will not leave me alone.” 

“Well,” said Fammy, “we shall see. I shall wait on myself, 
for I came up to have a word with him. I was afraid you might 
go dancing off like this again, and I was going to—to buy him a 
pair of spectacles. It seems that I cannot do that now. You 
must let me judge for myself. You look more decent than I 
thought you would. That I will admit.” 

Little David, in a neat suit of dark blue cloth, the jacket of 
which was long and double-breasted, looked very decent indeed, 
although absurdly slender and youthful. 

John Henry thought so when he arrived in the early forenoon, 
and Mrs. Baldwin thought so also when she descended from aloft 
and was introduced to her new lodger. The latter lady was mildy 
astonished, but as she had been solacing her forced imprisonment 
in the house during the absence of Veronica with continuous and 
copious draughts of liquor, she was not quite certain whether 
she had seen Little David before or not. She accepted, without 
demur, Veronica’s statement that she had found a strange lady 
occupying her room, for she remembered Fammy distinctly, and 
she also remembered that the good soul had asked for a bed for one 
night only. Veronica’s room had been empty. It was natural 
that Mrs. Baldwin should wish to keep the bed aired to safeguard 
Veronica’s health from damage. 


LITTLE DAVID NEARLY DISAPPEARS 


189 


She was more than pleased that the small back was let to a 
brother of John Henry’s, and she made no objection to the low 
figure suggested by Veronica. The room was. a bother on account 
of the communicating door, and John Henry always paid on the 
nail. He was respectable, too, and that was more than could be 
said of most people. Veronica liked him, and that also was more 
than could be said of most people. In fact Mrs. Baldwin was so 
pleased to see Veronica back again that she would have agreed to 
anything. 

John Henry was astounded at the sight of Fammy, but he was 
also delighted. 

“There now!” he said to Little David. “Could anything have 
happened more fortunately? Your foster-mother can stay till 
you are comfortably at home here. I have never been so pleased 
in all my life.” 

Fammy was moved to utter a remark after this. 

“I came up to see you,” she said. “I wanted to take you to 
a man who makes splendid spectacles, but he is dead so it can’t 
be helped.” 

John Henry regarded her in some astonishment. 

“I assure you,” he said in all seriousness, “that there is 
nothing the matter with my eyes.” 

Fammy grunted. 

Five days later on she departed for her own home. The 
number of instructions she gave to Veronica, on the night 
previous to this, could not be counted. The brain would 
reel at the colossal total. Veronica’s brain reeled. In fact it 
reeled so much that her mouth opened and she uttered uncouth 
sounds. She had altered her attitude, however, before Fammy 
ceased to speak. This was fortunate for, if she had not, 
Fammy might have started it all over again and that would 
have been a pity. 

The first three days John Henry—at his own suggestion—had 
given up his room to Fammy and ascended nightly to Veronica’s 


190 


LITTLE DAVID 


airy nest tinder the slates; but the last two days Fammy had 
insisted on his occupying his own bed. The reason she gave 
for this was that her conscience was troubled. It was. But that 
which troubled her conscience was not the occupying of John 
Henry’s bed. It is to be presumed, however, that since she 
departed in a more or less equable frame of mind, she was fairly 
satisfied with things in general. They had been quite a happy 
family party in John Henry’s room, which was large, airy, and 
where the bed and such matters stood hidden behind what had 
once been a screen. Little David seemed happy. Fammy was 
exceedingly amiable. Veronica was a silent, and very often 
thoughtful member of the company; and John Henry was in a 
continual state of enjoyment. Mrs. Baldwin, hearing of this 
family party, was moved to curiosity but, remembering that Ver¬ 
onica formed part of it, she restrained herself. She had no wish 
to cross swords with that young woman over any matter what¬ 
soever. She feared that Veronica might spit in her face—an 
objectionable practice. 

John Henry saw Fammy off at Paddington. Then he returned 
home. She had given him many fragments of advice in relation 
to his dealings with Little David, and he went over them in his 
mind as he walked along the streets. The boy was fond of being 
left alone. He had a morbid dislike of any one intruding into 
his room. He had an equally morbid dislike of any touching 
or otherwise handling him—John Henry knew this by exper¬ 
ience. He was exceedingly shy, retiring, and delicate-minded. 
He had even objected to encountering his own father when in 
night attire—John Henry must bear this in mind. It was the 
result of a strained condition of nerves, no doubt, and would 
wear off in time. He must never be allowed to go out by him¬ 
self, and he must not go out much. He must never go near 
Paddington station if he wished to avoid the chance of meeting 
his father, who was occasionally to be seen there. He had a 
friend of the name of Emma, of whom Fammy approved, and 


LITTLE DAVID NEARLY DISAPPEARS 


191 


she was to be allowed to see him whenever he liked; but stray people 
must be kept out. 

Like Veronica, John Henry was a trifle confused by the voluble 
verbosity of Fammy; but he was quite clear in his own mind as 
to his course of action. The boy had been unhappy, had received 
a great shock and been treated abominably. Any mention of his 
people, or of what had occurred in the past was distasteful, and 
made him uncomfortable and unhappy. John Henry knew noth¬ 
ing of what his parents were or might be. He simply knew what 
he could see with his own eyes that he was lost, and helpless, 
and greatly in want of some one to think of, and look after him. 
It was quite a sufficient store of knowledge for John Henry 
Millman. 

“I shall look after him as if he were my own brother, and 
respect him as if he were a sister instead/’ remarked John Henry 
to Veronica, as he entered the front door. ‘‘Anybody would want 
to do that, for he repays the slightest attention with interest. I 
am fortunate to have the opportunity. I am a very lucky man 
indeed.” 

Whatever Veronica’s thoughts were on the subject she kept 
them to herself. She made a statement, however, and it was 
worthy of consideration. 

“Quite so,” she said shortly, “and I hope you have enough 
money left to be able to do it. I have been thinking. You will 
want to work again. You had better let me have what is left and 
I’ll pay it out as it is required. Money is not safe in your hands. 
I know that from experience.” 

John Henry regarded Veronica with respect. 

“I believe you are right,” he said. “I have some one to consider 
now, and I have never had that before. My money is in the 
cracked tea-pot on the mantel-shelf. Leave a few shillings, but 
keep the rest. You are a fount of wisdom, Veronica!” 

The thought that he might consider himself, you will observe, 
was one that had not occurred to John Henry. 


192 


LITTLE DAVID 


Fammy had departed immediately after an early lunch. Little 
David was not in evidence in John Henry’s room, and he remained 
invisible for the greater part of the afternoon. John Henry would 
have liked to say a few words on this, their first occasion 
of being left alone together; but he restrained himself. The boy 
was in his room and he disliked any intrusion. He moved about, 
making his sparse belongings appear as attractive as possible; and 
then he sat down at the table to consider the framework drawn up 
at the Red House as a possible play of his book. He did not do 
much work, however, for his thoughts kept straying into the next 
room; and he commenced to wonder just what the boy could be 
doing. 

It appeared that he must be doing very little, for there was no 
sound or movement. John Henry listened, grew uneasy, and finally 
decided that Little David must be resting or asleep. The thought 
impelled him to perform every action with care to avoid making 
a noise. In this fashion he dropped his tobacco jar with a crash 
that made Little David jump and shiver with apprehension. That 
young gentleman was not asleep or even resting. In fact he 
appeared to be afflicted with an attack of nerves, and in danger of 
being scared out of his wits on the slightest provocation. His 
attention, also, seemed to be concentrated on the room next door, 
and on a consideration of John Henry’s movements. 

John Henry smoked and his mind went back to the afternoon 
when he had wrested the boy from the Dainty Brute. Then he 
passed on in a natural sequence of thought to the Black Bull at 
Tipping Horley. There he halted for a little and smiled; but 
after he had smiled, he frowned and pulled hard at his pipe. 
The pipe went out, but John Henry went on puffing with unabated 
vigour. There appeared to be something working in his mind 
that did not please him. He grew uneasy and restive, made a 
fresh attempt to work and gave it up, lit his pipe and emitted 
clouds of smoke, and then jumped from his chair with sudden 
violence. 


LITTLE DAVID NEARLY DISAPPEARS 


193 


“Idiot!” said John Henry in an angry voice. “Worse than an 
idiot—imbecile!” 

Then he remembered that Little David was possibly asleep, and 
he tiptoed to the communicating door and listened. There was 
no sound so he felt relieved. He commenced preparations for tea. 
These he carried out with skill, despatch, and a disregard of the 
moralities of tea-making that arose from long practice under 
adverse circumstances. Everything being in readiness he tiptoed 
to the communicating door, stood silent beside it for a moment, 
and then knocked. He was assured of his theory that Little David 
had been asleep, for immediately there came an answering and 
startled gasp. 

“Tea, Little David!” he said in an explanatory voice. “It is 
all ready and waiting. Will you come in?” 

An uncertain and quavering voice was faintly heard to utter: 
“Yes!” 

A fresh thought came to John Henry. The boy might be 
nervous. He was an exceedingly nervous creature. It was only 
natural. John Henry refrained from looking at him when he 
entered in a slow and uncertain fashion. He waited till Little 
David had sat down and bent over his plate; then he glanced at 
him swiftly. The boy was nervous. There could be no doubt 
of it. His hand shook, and his entire figure seemed to be in a 
state of unrest. His colour came and went, and his breathing 
was somewhat irregular. There was an alarmed, defensive expres¬ 
sion on his face, too, when John Henry was able to see it properly. 

This affected John Henry, and they ate in silence. John Henry 
was annoyed with himself—exceedingly annoyed with himself— 
and he found speech difficult. He made a few extraordinary 
remarks, to which Little David responded with equally strange 
answers. There was an air of great discomfort about the entire 
proceedings that was very far from what John Henry had imagined 
would be the case. 

It was very annoying. 


194 


LITTLE DAVID 


The worst of it all was that, do what he might, John Henry 
was unable to get away from thinking about the night spent at the 
Black Bull. Not that there was any reason why he should wish 
not to think about that night, but it was the trend of his thoughts 
which annoyed him. You will remember the baleful influence of 
the objectionable pyjamas, and how much they worried and dis¬ 
gusted him; well, it was the same thing now, only it was worse 
because there were no pyjamas, nothing, except Little David 
crouched in a chair and obviously ill at ease. 

John Henry was more than annoyed with himself—he was 
disgusted. He recalled the fact that, for weeks, he had been 
unable to concentrate and work; and he sprang out of his chair 
and poked the fire with such unnecessary vigour that a hot cinder 
jumped out and landed on the sleeve of his coat. He did not 
perceive this, but Little David did. 

“You will be burning in a moment/’ he said in alarm, and he 
sprang from his chair, lifted the glowing ember, cast it in the fire, 
and stopped the cloth from smouldering. There was a large 
round hole on John Henry’s sleeve just beside the bend of the 
elbow. 

Having done these things Little David thrust the fingers of 
his left hand into his mouth and danced. John Henry relinquished 
the poker in great distress. 

“You might have hurt yourself badly,” he said. “You should 
not have done that! It did not matter about my coat.” 

“You might have been hurt yourself,” retorted Little David, 
still dancing. “I did not think about your coat.” 

Having said this he suddenly flushed scarlet, forgot about the 
pain in his fingers, ceased his dancing, and sat down in his chair 
in an even greater state of discomfort and apprehension. 

John Henry, thrusting his hands into his pockets, walked to 
the window and stared out at the back yard. He did the first 
action because his hands had felt impelled to grasp the hands of 
Little David—the boy disliked being touched. He did the second 


LITTLE DAVID NEARLY DISAPPEARS 


195 


action for two reasons. For one because he could see the discom¬ 
fort on the boy’s face and it pained him to see it there. For 
another because he was desirous of speaking about himself. 

“I’m a funny animal,” he said, “and you must put up with me. 
I act, often, without thought and with small consideration for 
other people. Take the night we spent at the Black Bull for 
example.” He paused, and it was as well that he continued to 
stare out of the window, for Little David had stiffened and sat 
grasping the arms of his chair as if prepared for immediate 
flight. “You were unhappy, disturbed, scared out of your wits, 
and all my attention should have been concentrated on you to 
try and ease matters—it was not. I lay in bed and thought about— 
about myself in a fashion that I should have been ashamed of. I 
was, too, but that made no difference. It was the fault of these 
wretched, female pyjamas, I suppose. You are only a boy and 
would not understand if I explained. What I want to convey is 
that if I seem moody, and rude, and do things abruptly, it has 
nothing to do with you. It is only my own wretched little nature 
asserting itself in an annoying fashion. Just pay no attention.” 

Little David sat back suddenly in his chair and disappeared 
from sight behind his hands. 

“My intentions are good,” said John Henry, turning from the 
window and coming back slowly, “but I am a fool. I like you 
immensely and want to make you happy and entirely at ease, yet 
I always seem to affect you with nerves when we are alone together. 
It must be my odd manners and my habit of thinking about 
myself. I can come to no other conclusion; but if there is any¬ 
thing else, just tell me and I shall try to rectify it.” 

Little David arose suddenly and commenced to clear away the 
tea-things, a process which necessitated his moving to the other 
end of the room, and during which he kept his back turned on 
John Henry as much as possible. 

“I—I don’t think there is anything,” he said. 

John Henry allowed him to carry on unassisted, for the back 


196 


LITTLE DAVID 


view of the boy had made him jump to the conclusion that he 
desired to keep his face hidden. He did. 

“There is nothing,” said Little David, a few seconds later, and 
the tone of his voice had altered. “It is all my own fault. I was 
afraid that you might think me a bother.” 

As John Henry remarked to Veronica, when she came in later on, 
it was the most absurd idea he had ever heard in his life. Veronica 
allowed the remark to pass without comment. There was a new 
piece of furniture in the room, too, that she had never seen before; 
and this she also allowed to pass without comment. It stood at 
right angles to the table where John Henry wrote, and it also 
was a table. A small portion of the rubbish—Veronica looked on 
all odd paper as rubbish—from John Henry’s table had been trans¬ 
ferred to it, and lay there in neat little heaps, and in the midst 
of these reposed John Henry’s typewriter. At the table, with a 
heightened colour and a pleased, excited expression on his face, sat 
Little David. John Henry occupied the hearth-rug and con¬ 
templated this combination with enjoyment. Veronica passed to 
her accustomed seat in silence. 

“I must start work in earnest to-morrow,” said John Henry, 
apparently carrying on a conversation broken by the entrance of 
Veronica. “I have the idea of this play in my head, but as I have 
never tried to do such a thing before, it will not be easy to get 
it out. You will be an immense help especially as you can read 
my writing. It is a splendid idea. What do you think, Veronica?” 

“Splendid!” said Veronica in a dry voice, “and quite necessary. 
You had better start to-night.” 

“Working, I mean,” she added, in response to John Henry’s 
glance of astonishment. “You must be thinking of something, and 
that will be better for you than anything else. Anyway you must 
make money—now.” 

“I must,” said John Henry, “but I keep forgetting about it. 
I must start right away. This play has got to be a success.” 

He was puzzled, however, at the first part of Veronica’s remark, 


LITTLE DAVID NEARLY DISAPPEARS 


197 


and at the tone of her voice. Little David, it may be remarked, 
was not. It might also be mentioned that it was the first and last 
acid remark uttered by Veronica about the new occupant of John 
Henry’s room of an evening. Little David, who was wise in odd 
ways, remembered that it was the first night; and he determined 
to come presently and sit beside her. He did this, as it happened, 
much sooner than he had anticipated. 

“You have burnt your coat,” said Veronica to John Henry. 
“Take it off and let me patch the hole,” and she held out her 
hand for the garment in question. 

Little David arose hurriedly and came over to the fire; where¬ 
upon John Henry, suddenly mindful of Fammy’s manifold instruc¬ 
tions, retired behind the screen. While there he distinctly heard 
Veronica say: “You cannot do two things at once. No one can.” 
Her voice was kindly, and it also seemed to hold a note of warn¬ 
ing; whereat John Henry was astonished. He was still more 
astonished, when he reappeared, to see that Little David appeared 
to be crestfallen, and that Veronica’s hand remained outstretched. 

“I can dam,” said Little David, and the line of his mouth 
became suddenly straight. “I was taught at school. Give it to 
me. Veronica works too hard all day. She must not work here 
at night.” 

John Henry did so with great pleasure. He went to his table, 
sat down there, and glowed all over at this wonderful action of 
Little David; but presently the manuscript before him claimed his 
attention. He grew interested, absorbed, and finally lost. He 
worked. When it was apparent that he was thoroughly lost, Little 
David paused in his task and made a statement to Veronica in a 
vehement whisper. 

“I do think you work too hard, and you must not work here 
at night. I thought that long before you mentioned the coat. You 
do believe me?” 

Veronica in a muted whisper conveyed the assurance that she did. 

Little David went on darning and Veronica sat up long past her 


198 


LITTLE DAVID 


accustomed time for departure because she knew that he wished 
to finish the task. It was a perfect work of art, that patch, and 
so skilfully done that John Henry—he had forgotten all about the 
hole by morning—did not notice it for days. This was rather hard 
on Little David, but he said nothing, and when John Henry did 
notice it he was so exceedingly pleased and contrite that the omis¬ 
sion became rather a good thing than otherwise. 

It was past eleven o’clock before the matter was completed to 
the satisfaction of the worker, and by then John Henry was 
absolutely and completely lost in his task. 

“Good-night, Veronica,” he said, as they rose to go to bed. 

“I am not away yet,” said Veronica, very distinctly. “I shall 
be back to do up the fire—after Little David is settled for the 
night.” 

This, it may be remarked, became a regular habit of Veronica’s. 

John Henry looked up from his work and smiled. 

“Good-night, Little David,” he said. “Tap on the wall if any¬ 
thing goes wrong.” 

Little David did not tap, so it is presumed that nothing went 
wrong. He did not go to sleep, however, but lay awake for a 
long time; till, in fact, John Henry went to bed. All this time 
one thought kept recurring to his mind. It was: “He had forgotten 
about me entirely.” He had. This thought did not seem to please 
Little David, but when he fell asleep there was a smile on his lips. 

John Henry, having reached a point in his labours, ceased to 
work and arose with an exclamation of fatigue. He pushed back 
his chair and then he said: “Oh!” and lifted it with care. He 
went on tiptoe out into the passage, listened for a moment at Little 
David’s door, and returning to his room, undressed in a silent 
and noiseless fashion and crept into bed. 

Little David fell asleep on a fresh thought, and it was that 
which caused him to smile. It was: “Whenever he stopped work¬ 
ing, he remembered.” He had done so. This thought pleased Little 
David so much that he determined to remain awake every night 


LITTLE DAVID NEARLY DISAPPEARS 


199 


when John Henry became lost in his work. He did not succeed 
in doing this, of course, but he did do so on a great number of 
occasions; and on none of them was he ever in any way 
disappointed. 

It was all very odd and startling. Little David thought so 
when he was left alone. He had thought this so strongly on the 
first afternoon that—for several hours—he was in great danger of 
disappearing altogether. He nearly did disappear, you will remem¬ 
ber, for he vanished at one time behind his hands. 


CHAPTER XIV 


THE TWO BEAUTIFUL CREATURES GROW IMPATIENT 

George Cornwall and Muggie, about this time, were subject to 
sudden fits of nerves and depression during which they looked 
darkly at each other and imagined terrible things. The procedure, 
on these occasions, was invariably the same. Muggie told George 
Cornwall what she thought about him and the world in general. 
This drove him out into the garden. Then she relented and joined 
him there and he told her what he thought himself. This sent them 
back into the house together. There they sought out Sheila and 
drenched her with a flow of excited and reproachful talk. Where¬ 
upon Sheila sent for young George and crushed him with bitter 
reproaches—young George had no objection to this for she invari¬ 
ably made up for it afterwards; but that is of no consequence. 

It was all the fault of young George. He had first thought of 
Mabel Canning appearing at the Red House as Little David. 
He had—at the instigation of Sheila and Mabel, but the latter 
fact never transpired at any of these moments of emotion. 

Young George invariably bore the burden of the fears, and 
doubts, and accusations, of the rest of the family with patience till 
he thought that the storm had almost blown itself out. Then he 
made the same suggestion. He would go up to London at once, 
visit John Henry Millman on the pretext of inquiring about the 
progress of his play, and bring back a precise report of the state 
of affairs. These reports were always favourable. John Henry 
was absorbed and working hard. Little David was happy and also 
working hard. There was no sign or indication of Mabel Can¬ 
ning to be seen. Veronica had assured him that there was no 

200 


THE TWO BEAUTIFUL CREATURES 


201 


necessity to worry. Mrs. Baldwin continued to spend her evenings 
out, and Veronica her evenings in. He, George, might have saved 
the train fare and remained at home. Peace and quiet would then 
descend on the Red House, and life go on as usual. 

This had happened on several occasions, then one morning, in 
the midst of an exceptionally fierce oration from George Cornwall, 
the telephone bell rang and Sheila, going to answer, returned with 
a scared face and the news that Philip Canning was on the wire. 
He desired speech with George Cornwall, and the tone of his voice 
was ominous. 

The Cornwall family was shaken to the core. They looked at 
one another, and all, with one accord, followed their head and 
master as he walked hurriedly, but nervously, out of the room. 
George Cornwall had just been explaining that he was the head 
and master of the Red House, that his views must be taken seri¬ 
ously, but he would gladly have relinquished the post and title 
at that moment. The instrument was one of these trying affairs, 
secured to the wall, up to which it is necessary to stand to atten¬ 
tion. George Cornwall was a short man. He was also fat. He 
stood at attention, and the family clustered round him, mutely 
sympathetic and exceedingly apprehensive. His answers, which 
were brief and breathless, filled them with foreboding; and when 
he replaced the receiver and swung round gasping and red in the 
face, they were prepared for the worst. The words which came, 
however, filled them with astonishment. 

“That man should be—awakened,” said George Cornwall 
fiercely. “That is if anything on earth can arouse him to the fact 
that he is alive.” He breathed hard for a moment. “I shall go up 
to London myself and pay Millman a visit, and Muggie will come 
with me. You had better go and start searching for your aunt’s 
clothes, Sheila, at once!”—there was always a species of struggle 
before Muggie departed to catch a train—“We will just be in 
time for the express if you hurry up.” 

The Cornwall family regarded their head in a horror-stricken 


202 


LITTLE DAVID 


fashion. His tone of decision and authority was both unusual 
and perturbing. 

“What did he say about Mabel? Does he suspect us?” asked 
Sheila breathlessly. 

“Say!” ejaculated George Cornwall, waving his arms about in a 
foolish fashion for a fat man confronted by his family. “Not 
one word! He never mentioned her name. That is why I am so 
annoyed. He has no right to behave like that. It is not kind, or 
decent, or even human. He knows you are her friend and she 
might be dead or worse than dead. He rang up—on a matter of 
business connected with John Henry Millman’s play. He has 
found a producer willing and eager to have the book dramatized, 
and he wishes to waste no time because it will be good from a 
business point of view, so would I see the man at once and intro¬ 
duce him to Millman! A business point of view when your own 
child is lost and possibly suffering tortures! It makes me sick.” 

George Cornwall hurried Muggie out of the room in search of her 
clothes—not that I mean to suggest she had no clothes on at the 
time—far from it, but, like most ladies, it was not possible for her 
to go unexpectedly out in the clothes she was wearing at the moment 
—and followed himself, fuming, and fretting, and uttering remarks 
on the subject of graven images and other equally strange topics 
amongst which Philip Canning was included. He was very far 
from suspecting that the loss of Mabel had anything to do with 
the finding of a producer for John Henry’s play. Indeed the 
thought never entered his head, but it had. Philip Canning had 
not forgotten the advice of Sinclair Dodds, although pride still 
sealed his lips, and every other effort to locate or even discover a 
faint trace of Mabel had proved fruitless. Philip Canning was 
suffering. Of this, however, George Cornwall was ignorant. 

“I shall drive them over to the station,” remarked Sheila to young 
George. “I do not like this business at all. There is no telling 
what old George might say or do, and I do not see why he wants 
Muggie to go up as well. Run and get the car ready like a good 


THE TWO BEAUTIFUL CREATURES 


203 


boy while I hurry Muggie, otherwise they will not have time to 
buy tickets. I have a good mind to break down half way to the 
station. I must think.’’ 

George Cornwall, however, was taking no risks. 

“I am going to drive myself,” he announced at the last moment. 
“You and George can walk over and bring the car back. I shall 
leave it at the station. No one will want to run away with the 
thing, and if they do, we can buy a new one. It is insured against 
loss.” 

They departed in state to the accompaniment of groans from the 
car, and uneasy glances from George and Sheila. After lunch 
these two young people walked over to Tipping Horley in a 
depressed and somewhat strained silence, the result of a morning 
spent in argument which had led to no result. They found the 
car, climbed in, and proceeded to return. Passing the Black Bull, 
Sheila had a sudden memory of John Henry’s remarks about the 
odd man. She stopped the car, commanded George to get out, find 
the man, and bring him to her. George obeyed without question. 

The odd man was out. He was always out, according to the 
stout gentleman with the red face. He was the laziest, most 
good-for-nothing rascal on the face of the earth. When he was not 
going over to Crompton, he was going up to London. The stout 
gentleman, who was our old friend the landlord of the Black Bull, 
stated that he had no idea why he retained him in his service—no 
idea whatever. At one time the odd man had never gone out 
and never done any work. Now he was always going out and 
always working hard when he was in. The man was a regular 
vexation I 

George carried this intelligence to Sheila and waited for instruc¬ 
tions. She sat and frowned, for a moment, then her face cleared 
and she told him to jump in. He did, and she promptly turned 
the car and set off in the opposite direction. George preserved a 
dignified silence but, at length, his curiosity overcame him. 

“Where are we going?” he asked. 


204 


LITTLE DAVID 


“To Crompton to see the odd man,” said Sheila gaily. “I have 
an idea.” 

“The Lord preserve us!” said George piously. 

Sheila’s idea proved correct. They found the odd man seated in 
Fammy’s kitchen, and Fammy was in the act of administering tea 
—a very nice and homely tea—to that worthy man. They all had 
tea. George, with the certainty that Sheila had some plan in her 
head, was disturbed. Sheila appeared to be greatly excited. 
Fammy was distracted; and the odd man, at the sight of the 
strangers, retired at once into the profoundest depths of gloom, 
although he had been almost cheerful, judging by his expression, 
when they arrived. 

“We came over to see you,” said Sheila, beaming on the odd 

man. 

The odd man retired behind at least six additional degrees of 
gloom, and his eyes commenced to play a game of trying to see 
which could look the furthest away from her face; otherwise he 
gave no sign that he was conscious of being addressed. 

“We wanted to hear how Mr. Millman and Little David were 
getting on, and what you think of it all,” continued Sheila. 

George—he did not even know who Fammy was—gave indica¬ 
tions of a desire to flee. Fammy—she was in the act of lifting the 
kettle off the fire—commenced to drench the bread with the hot 
water. This action eased the situation. 

“I did not go to do it,” she remarked, when the matter had been 
rectified, “but you spoke so sudden-like. I have always heard 
Miss Mabel say that you were sudden-like,” she added, pausing 
and mopping her face which had grown somewhat flushed. 

“She is. There is no one like her,” said George, with enthusiasm 
and fervour. 

“The truth is George and I are worried about Little David,” 
said Sheila, “and we do not quite know what to do. Father and 
Muggie have gone up to town and they intend to call on Mr. Mill- 
man, There is no telling what may have happened before they 


THE TWO BEAUTIFUL CREATURES 


205 


return. Then we are worried because nothing has happened. I 
have not seen Little David since he left our house. None of us 
have except George here, and his accounts are quite inadequate. 
I had a sudden inspiration outside the Black Bull when I thought 
that you have never said a word to us about the matter, and I 
sent George in for the odd man. Then we came on here. I 
guessed that he knew you and came over here every now and 
then.” 

As she said this Sheila glanced from Fammy to the odd man with 
a twinkle in her eye. 

“A man has to be somewhere,” said the odd man in a melan¬ 
choly voice. “One place is much the same as another.” 

“Quite so,” said Sheila gravely, “that is just what I thought 
myself. John Henry Millman told me a little about you. I felt 
assured that you had been in London at least once since Mrs. 
Bluebell left there.” 

Fammy became animated. She awoke from the confused state 
into which this passage of arms between Sheila and the odd man 
seemed to have sent her. 

“He has,” she said. “He has been a regular blessing to me, that 
man. How do you think I could have sat here in comfort not 
knowing how Miss Mabel was going on, if it had not been for him? 
He has been arriving with the milk at Paddington more mornings 
than I care to think of considering the cost of travelling; and com¬ 
ing back in the next train with messages from Veronica. He has 
not seen Miss Mabel because-” 

Fammy paused abruptly. The odd man had suddenly extended 
a long, lean hand in her direction, and made a species of pass as 
if about to commence an incantation. 

“A man can only see what is there,” he said, with conviction. 
“I saw the young lady once—at the Black Bull, but there is nothing 
up in London but Little David. That is what I was saying when 
you came in.” 

Sheila nodded with an air of great wisdom. 



206 


LITTLE DAVID 


“Just what George and I were worried about,” she said. “We 
must do something to rectify the matter.” 

This being quite a fresh aspect of the case for George, he looked 
both astonished and indignant. 

“Well, I never—” he commenced, but Sheila cut him short. 

“Of course you did not,” she said. “None of us did. We never 
expected Little David to remain so long in existence. It is not 
right. It is not even decent. The poor child must be worried to 
death. Something must be done at once.” 

“She is happy,” said Fammy, immediately becoming defensive. 
“There is no harm in that. She is living quiet, and decent-like, 
and she works hard. They both work hard. Little David is a 
lot happier than Mabel Canning ever was, and it is not me that 
would have it otherwise. He treats her like a brother, and that 
does no harm either.” 

“If Mabel Canning is not in love with John Henry Millman by 
this time—she ought to be,” said Sheila. “What I want to know 
is if he is in love with her?” 

Fammy bristled with indignation. 

“What right has the man not to be in love with her, seeing as 
how he has seen her?” she demanded. “What right has any 
man not to be in love with my Mabel?” She waited for an answer 
and as none was forthcoming ended triumphantly: “None what¬ 
ever!” % 

“There are some that might think otherwise,” said the odd man 
suddenly, and his one eye rested for a second on the face of young 
George who, from that moment onwards, looked on him with 
approval. 

Fammy, in the most unexpected fashion, took no exception to 
this remark, except for the fact that her face grew a trifle red. 
No doubt this was caused by the effort to refrain from contradict¬ 
ing a guest in her own house. 

“Veronica’s opinion,” pursued the odd man, “is that he is in 
love with her, that he has been in love with her from the first day 


THE TWO BEAUTIFUL CREATURES 


207 


they met; but that he is the last person on the earth to find it out, 
for he seldom thinks of himself. Not that he has any objections 
to marriage, but it would not occur to him that anyone would ever 
want to marry him.” 

“How do you know he has no objections to marriage?” asked 
Sheila incautiously. 

The odd man became abstracted. 

“A man constructs his own thoughts on other people,” he said. 
“The other day he was talking to me about two people—two beauti¬ 
ful young creatures he called them, and he said he wondered they 
did not grow impatient.” 

“Oh!” said Sheila, and she flushed and then laughed. “They are 
growing impatient, but not about themselves.” 

“All a matter of opinion,” said George thoughtfully, but no one 
paid any attention to him. 

Sheila sat silent for a time, immersed in thought, and then she 
sprang to her feet and hustled the two male things out of the 
room. 

“I have another idea,” she said. “I want to speak to Fammy 
by herself. You keep him outside, George, and we can take him 
back to Tipping Horley—that is if he wants to go.” 

Half an hour later on Sheila and Fammy emerged from the 
cottage, and there was an air of suppressed excitement about them 
both that George regarded with suspicion. He passed no comment 
but started the engine of the car. Fammy came out and stood be¬ 
side them in the road, and she seemed to be a trifle doubtful and 
uncertain. 

“You will hear what your father and your aunt have to say,” 
she remarked to Sheila, “and that may alter things a little. You 
must let me know, too, everything that happens. I will not have 
my little girl made unhappy.” 

“Of course not,” said Sheila, “and I shall come over and tell you 
everything. It will be great sport and you must not spoil it. It 
is only right, too, of that I am assured.” 


208 


LITTLE DAVID 


The car moved away. Fammy stood and watched it disappear 
round the bend of the road, and she stood and watched the bend of 
the road for a long time after it had disappeared. Then she went 
back to the kitchen and commenced to wash up. She did so in a 
spasmodic fashion which showed that her thoughts were not on 
the job in hand; and when she was half way through she made a 
remark, and that appeared to ease her mind, for then she went on 
in her customary and business-like fashion. 

“She is a good-hearted girl. She likes Mabel and wants to 
help her,” said Fammy, “but she is a woman, and there is a 
grudge working in her mind because Little David is going about 
in trousers. Funny creatures we are!” She lifted a clean cup 
and slipped it back into the basin in a moment of abstraction. 
“Well, I need not talk. I was just the same myself when I first 
saw her!” 

Fammy, it is presumed, was talking about Sheila. 

That young woman met her father and aunt at the station, in 
the early evening, and drove them back to the Red House in the car. 
George Cornwall appeared to be excited, and Muggie also seemed 
stirred out of her normal and placid state of calm. Sheila asked 
no questions on the way, but when they arrived at the Red House 
she shepherded them into the sitting-room, called for George, 
and demanded a full and detailed statement of all and every¬ 
thing that had transpired. George Cornwall was more than 
willing to give this. He started off at once, and he talked 
without ceasing for three quarters of an hour. At the end of 
that time he paused to take breath, and Sheila withered him 
with a remark. 

“And this,” said Sheila in tones of disgust, “is the man who was 
angry with Philip Canning for not mentioning his daughter!” 

George Cornwall had not said one word about Little David, or 
made the slightest reference to his curious position in the habita¬ 
tion of John Henry Millman. He had confined his attention to 
John Henry’s play, to the astounding fact that it was finished, to 


THE TWO BEAUTIFUL CREATURES 


209 


the equally astounding fact that it was to be produced without 
delay, and to a description of his own, Muggie’s, and the pro¬ 
ducer’s enthusiasm on the subject. 

George Cornwall was slightly discomfited, but he recovered in 
a second. 

“There is no necessity to say anything about that,” he said. 
“The man has had no time or energy to spare. He has not had 
an opportunity to grow suspicious. There is no reason why he 
should. Little David is happy, and contented, and working with 
him. They suit each other admirably, and Millman is sincerely 
attached to the boy. There were moments when I forgot that he 
was not a boy myself. Time enough to worry when there is 
something to worry about. At present while they are busy over 
this play, there is no reason for us to grow excited. There is 
a rotten piece losing money at the Bigpit Theatre in spite of an 
excellent cast. So soon as—” 

“The best paying house in London!” interrupted young George 
in a voice of excitement. 

“Go away!” said Sheila in disgust. “You are a disgrace with 
your plays. Go away both of you and let me talk to Muggie. 
You inhuman monsters!” 

Muggie had not much to say. They had found John Henry at 
his table, and Little David at his table—both busy. It was all so 
natural that Muggie had lost sight of Little David’s sex, and found 
it again with a start. Little David had proved of invaluable 
assistance to John Henry; and she, Muggie, recalling how pathetic 
and wistful Mabel Canning had been, could not find it in her heart 
to condemn the deception. She had made the attempt and failed. 
That had been when John Henry and George Cornwall departed 
together to interview the theatrical gentleman. Muggie was of the 
opinion that it must soon come to an end, but that, for the present, 
matters should be left as they stood. 

To all this Sheila made no response other than to look thought¬ 
fully at the fire. 


210 


LITTLE DAVID 


Muggie was moved to add a few words on the subject of Canning 
and Canning. 

“I do not wonder they asked George to try and gain Millman’s 
interest by suggesting a dramatization of his book,” she said. 

“He showed us their agreement. I know little about these 
matters, but what poor Millman is going to make out of it will 
not amount to much. Your father grew excited. Millman seemed 
astonished. He said it had not occurred to him in that light. I 
do not suppose he even thought about the money. I do not believe 
he would now, if it were not for Little David. He had dismissed 
the idea, but when he looked at the boy he immediately became 
thoughtful.” 

“Was Little David there at the time?” asked Sheila. 

Muggie nodded. 

“Yes,” she said. “It was rather hard luck. Your father should 
not have said so much. Little David’s face was a study. Philip 
Canning will have little mercy from his daughter if he chances to 
meet her again. I believe Mabel Canning will bear more resent¬ 
ment over that, than over what he said to herself. I expected 
the subject would be broached afterwards, when we were alone, 
but it was not. The matter went too deep for words.” 

“You mean?” said Sheila interrogatively. 

“My dear,” said Muggie, “if you had heard the tone of voice 
in which Little David said: ‘Doing this to you when he is so rich 
himself!’ you would not ask me what I mean. It was then I 
remembered Little David’s sex. The remark fitted in with your 
father’s conversation and passed unnoticed; but I am not dead to 
the realities of life yet, although I am growing old.” 

“You will never grow old,” said Sheila, kissing her affectionately. 
“I shall attend to that.” 

At dinner George Cornwall laid down his knife and fork and 
regarded Sheila with suspicion. 

“I can see,” he said, “that you are about to do something you 
should not. I know the signs only too well. What is it now?” 


THE TWO BEAUTIFUL CREATURES 


211 


Sheila strenuously affirmed her innocence, but directly the meal 
was over she beckoned young George into the privacy of the 
drawing-room; and they were closeted there for a long time. They 
emerged, finally, and stood in the hall, and the face of George was 
somewhat puzzled and doubtful. The face of Sheila, on the other 
hand, was flushed and exceedingly mischievous. That a doubt 
preyed on George’s mind was made apparent by his words. 

“I agree,” he said, “and am quite willing to do anything reason¬ 
able to help matters on, but why you should have spent so much 
time explaining it, beats me altogether. You must have some wild 
scheme in your head. I have a presentiment of evil in my bones!” 

“I shall go and see Little David myself,” said Sheila, “and then 
I may have a little more to say on the subject.” 

“I knew it,” said George with a groan. “We shall all be in the 
hands of the police, or the bailiffs, or—you!” 

“Don’t be rude,” said Sheila, and she commenced to mount the 
stairs. 

“I wish,” said George, disconsolately yet watching her with 
approval, “that I knew what is in your head.” 

Sheila paused—she was half-way up the stairs by this time, 
and peered down over the banisters. 

“The two beautiful young creatures grow impatient,” she chanted, 
with a mischievous grin, “even as John Henry Millman prophesied. 
How do you know that my head is not full of impatience?” 

Being already half-way up stairs she gained her room before 
George could catch her. 

Sheila was a girl of great wisdom. 


CHAPTER XV 


IN WHICH LITTLE DAVID DETERMINES TO REMAIN 
FOR EVER 

John Henry Millman, emerging from a period of work and 
abstraction, looked round on his household gods and felt satis¬ 
fied. He was pleasantly exhausted and anticipated a period of 
rest and amusement. He was greatly appreciative of the efforts 
of Little David in relation to his work, and he explained this to 
that young gentleman in a fitting and pleasing fashion, whereat 
Little David seemed highly gratified. He went on to outline a 
possible programme for the next few days in which Little David 
and he were to do a number of pleasing and innocent things 
together, and Little David appeared to awaken to a fresh and vivid 
interest in life. Veronica, who was present at this point—it was 
on the evening after George Cornwall had departed to Tipping 
Horley and John Henry’s play had departed into the hands of the 
theatrical gentleman—said nothing, but she sniffed. Little David 
appeared to object to that sniff. 

They all sat round the fire, and Little David sat directly opposite 
to John Henry with the light full on his face. Veronica—between 
the two—suddenly became aware of the fact that John Henry was 
studying the boy with unwarranted attention. She grew uneasy, 
complained that the light was annoying her eyes, and rose to lower 
the gas. Little David, who had been staring at the fire with a 
fierce expression on his face, came back as if from a vast distance, 
and the line of his mouth—it had been very straight—altered and 
softened. He had been thinking of Philip Canning, and also of 
George Cornwall’s words on the subject of John Henry’s agreement. 

212 


DETERMINES TO REMAIN 


213 


John Henry puffed at his pipe in a profound and meditative 
fashion. 

Veronica became suddenly afflicted with nerves so that she asked 
a question. 

“What are you thinking about?” she asked. 

“Little David’s face,” said John Henry absently, and as he 
vouched no further information but went on puffiing in the same 
meditative fashion, it is to be presumed that he continued to do so. 

Little David’s face grew first red and then pale. 

“I—I think I shall go to bed,” he said abruptly. “I am very 
tired.” 

Veronica approving heartily of this idea, John. Henry raised 
no objection although the hour was early. He continued to smoke, 
and presently Veronica returned and sat down beside him. John 
Henry consumed several pipes before Veronica could summon up 
sufficient courage to ask a second question but, eventually, she did. 

“What is the matter with it?” she asked. 

John Henry seemed startled. 

“The matter with what?” 

“The boy’s face,” said Veronica shortly. 

“Little David’s face,” repeated John Henry in an amazed voice, 
“why nothing, of course! There was an expression about his 
mouth as he sat staring at the fire that reminded me of somebody 
I know, and I was trying to remember who it is, but I cannot.” 

“Was that all?” asked Veronica, and she seemed to be half dis¬ 
appointed and half relieved. 

“It was,” said John Henry, still surprised, and then he added 
swiftly: “I have not hurt his feelings, have I? I was thinking 
aloud. He is such an odd, sensitive little creature, and I am so 
clumsy and unthinking. He does not imagine that I have any ob¬ 
jection to his face?” 

“No—not that,” said Veronica. “I just wondered, that was all. 
He is tired, he has been as excited over this play of yours as if 
he had written it himself.” 


214 


LITTLE DAVID 


“He has,” said John Henry with feeling, “and he is still. I 
wanted to take him with me when I go to the theatre for rehearsals, 
but he will not come. He wants to wait and see it when it comes on 
as a finished article. He has been a great help to me—like your¬ 
self, Veronica. Everybody seems to help me these days. It is 
extraordinary.” 

Veronica, announcing her intention of going straight to bed, left 
the room without more ado; but she did not go straight to bed. 
She paid a visit to Little David instead, and held a whispered con¬ 
versation with that young gentleman for a considerable time. 
Even then she did not carry out her original intention, for she 
poked her head into John Henry’s room and made a remark which 
surprised him. 

“There is one person who will never do that,” said Veronica, 
darkly, “and he is—yourself.” 

After this Veronica closed the door, and really did go to bed. 

John Henry pondered this odd remark of Veronica’s and came to 
the conclusion that she must be suffering from over-work. He 
embarked on a dream where he succeeded—by means of his pen, a 
vague dream indeed!—in making enough money to live in a 
house of his own, and the working of this dream was beneficial 
to Veronica. Little David came into it, and at that he smiled. 
The dream, oddly enough, stopped there, for he commenced to 
visualize the boy’s face; and after he had been doing this for some 
little time with a softened expression, he sprang to his feet in a 
fury. 

“You should be thoroughly ashamed,” he remarked to himself. 
“If you are going to start off again like that, it will be a nice 
business!” 

He proceeded to go to bed with as little noise as possible, but he 
went out into the passage—as a matter of custom—to see that 
Little David’s light was out, and he stood listening for a moment 
to assure himself that all was well for the night. 

Little David, who had been kept awake by his thoughts, heard 


DETERMINES TO REMAIN 


215 


him and came to a conclusion in that moment. Little David, when 
once his mind was made up, was an exceedingly determined little 
person. 

“Ever since the night in the Black Bull . . .” muttered John 

Henry as he turned off the light. “If there were any reason for 
it . . .” he continued as he slipped into bed. “There can 

be no reason. It is all nonsense. I know no one. Even if I did, 
it would be all nonsense . . . 1” he ended, and he fell asleep 

on the thought. 

John Henry’s plans for a few quiet days with Little David did 
not materialize. This was due to the presence of two letters which 
came by the first post next morning. The one was for John Henry 
and it fixed an appointment for that afternoon with the theatrical 
gentleman, at which other theatrical ladies and gentlemen would 
be present. The other was for Little David and it stated that 
Sheila Cornwall was coming to see them. It also stated a number 
of other small points, but on the subject of these Little David pre¬ 
served a dignified silence. 

John Henry departed at two-fifteen, and Sheila arrived at two- 
thirty. The two young people, being sincerely attached to each 
other, were delighted to meet. They embraced, and kissed, and 
then they sat down. At least Little David sat down. Sheila 
remained standing, and she studied her friend with attention and 
a scrutiny that made Little David move uneasily and almost dis¬ 
appear. The chances are that he would have disappeared, for a 
time at least, if it had not been for the fact that he had reached a 
decision, late on the previous night, to remain for ever. 

“Well, Miss, what have you to say for yourself?” demanded 
Sheila. 

“Quite a lot,” said Little David, and he commenced to give a 
detailed description of his doings, and the doings of John Henry, 
Veronica, and Mrs. Baldwin. He spoke at some length on the 
subject of John Henry’s play, on John Henry’s work, and on his 
own efforts to help him. 


216 


LITTLE DAVID 


Sheila listened to all this with a frowning impatience, and when 
Little David was silent she said: 

“Now, go on and tell me what I want to hear?” 

There was, apparently, nothing more to tell. 

Sheila arose and shook Little David, but that had no result other 
than a heightened colour brought on by the exercise, and a straight¬ 
ening of Little David’s mouth, occasioned, no doubt, by the unex¬ 
pectedness of the action. She desisted suddenly from this occupa¬ 
tion, and it seemed as if she were neither surprised, nor displeased, 
that it had not jogged the memory of Little David in any way. 

She returned to her chair and regarded him fixedly, and his 
appearance seemed to aggravate her in some subtle fashion. 

“Very well, young man,” she said, “only do not come to me and 
say I was unwilling to help you.” 

Little David ignored this remark and, fortunately, Veronica 
appeared at this moment with tea. The said tea, it should be 
noted, did not belong to John Henry, or Veronica, or even Mrs. 
Baldwin. It was entirely—dishes and all—the property of the 
first floor front who was out for the day. As this fact remained 
locked in the bosom of Veronica, it did no harm to anyone. When 
John Henry returned he found the three of them talking with 
animation and Mrs. Baldwin shouting herself hoarse at the foot 
of the back stairs. Veronica, receiving the latter piece of informa¬ 
tion with composure, departed to save the unfortunate lady from 
entirely losing her voice. 

John Henry threw himself into a chair, accepted a cup of tea, 
and drank it with all the appearance of one consuming a portion— 
a word I have borrowed from Lyons’ tea-shop menu—of poison. 
He groaned once or twice, made feeble motions with his hands, and 
he seemed to be thoroughly and entirely shattered. He had the 
appearance of a man who has been out in a whirlwind after having 
passed through a mangle. 

Little David was immediately alarmed, a fact at which Sheila’s 
eyes danced and twinkled. 


DETERMINES TO REMAIN 


217 


“Whatever has happened?” he asked. “Are you ill?” 

John Henry regarded him with a blank stare, and then his 
face softened and he smiled. 

Sheila’s eyes ceased to twinkle at this point, and the expression 
of irritation returned to her face. 

“What a relief it is to have you here,” said John Henry, and he 
appeared to be grateful for it. “I believe I should go mad by my¬ 
self. If I thought you were thinking of running away, I would 
fix a chain to your leg.” 

“I am never going away at all,” said Little David with decision, 
and then he coloured and cast a scared glance at Sheila. 

That young woman ignored both the remark and the glance. 

“What is the trouble?” she asked John Henry. 

“When they were not all talking at once, one of them had 
got me into a corner and was telling me just what he, or she, was 
specially fitted for,” said John Henry. “Then there was the 
producer, and he has ideas. Also there were a number of other 
gentlemen who all seemed to have thought a lot, but what they 
all were I do not know. All I know is that they told me all about 
it. No two of them thought the same, and not one of them thought 
what I think myself. It was terrible—terrible!” 

“What do you mean?” demanded Sheila. 

“These theatrical people who imagined that they were talking 
about my play,” said John Henry in a hopeless voice. 

Sheila laughed—Little David looked daggers at her, although the 
laugh was not unkind—then she appeared to have a brain-wave. 
She took it very quietly, however, and her voice was quite calm, 
but her face glowed with mischief. 

“You want someone to go there and protect you,” she said. “I 
have a great mind to come up to Town and help you myself. 
I know how to deal with these people. They are the best- 
natured crowd on the earth once you understand how to take 
them.” 

“If you would,” said John Henry, grasping at the thought, “it 


218 


LITTLE DAVID 


would be a most kind action. How can I agree to what everybody 
wants if they all want something different?” 

“You certainly require some one to look after you in this busi- 
iness,” said Sheila with decision, “and neither George nor father 
can do so just now.” 

“Why?” asked Little David abruptly. 

“Because they are too busy,” said Sheila. “They have not been 
so busy for months.” 

Little David, for some unknown reason, appeared to be disturbed 
at the thought. 

“I wish I could help you,” he said to John Henry, and there 
was a wistful note in his voice, “but I cannot. I should be useless 
in every sense of the word.” 

John Henry immediately abandoned all thought of his theatrical 
complications. 

“Help me!” he said. “You do help me. This play would 
never have been finished if you had not been here. The mere sight 
of your face helps me, because when I look at you I forget about 
my worries. You are a perfect God-send to me in every way.” 

This remark, while it appeared to please Little David, seemed to 
have an adverse effect on Sheila. She rose and announced her 
intention of departing, and this she carried out forthwith. 

“I shall talk over the matter of giving you a little assistance 
with father and George,” she said at parting, “and let you know.” 

John Henry, seizing both her hands, clasped them warmly. 
Sheila returned the pressure with interest. John Henry—not 
to put too fine a point on it—was astonished. The train moving 
out at that moment—he had accompanied her to the station, leaving 
Little David alone—he was forced to walk down the platform for 
a few steps before he could free himself from her clasp. He 
returned home in slight bewilderment brought on by a radiant 
and beaming smile, and a frantically waving handkerchief. 

John Henry decided that it was very odd. It was. Later on he 
decided that it must have been his imagination. It was not. Later 


DETERMINES TO REMAIN 


219 


on still—it was about ten o’clock and Little David had departed 
into a dream over an odd and unpublished fragment penned by 
John Henry in his extreme youth—he came to the conclusion that, 
if it had not been his imagination, then he might be justified in 
entertaining the thoughts which kept crowding into his head. 
Since it was all imagination, he commenced to work on a new idea 
brought to life by Little David’s expression, and he worked hard. 
When he paused to consider the same, however, he found that it 
was more disturbing than his imaginings. 

“I do not understand myself at odd moments,” said John Henry, 
but as both Veronica and Little David had departed for the 
night, and he made no further statement, it can only be left at 
that. 

Perhaps he did not. 

About the same time, in the sitting-room of the Red House, 
Sheila gave voice to this very opinion. Muggie and George Corn¬ 
wall had retired for the night, and the two young people were 
seated one on either side of the fire. They had been seated 
there for some time, and it was evident that Sheila had been out¬ 
lining some line of action that had the effect of disturbing and 
alarming George. He sat with a troubled expression on his face, 
and Sheila appeared to be waiting for him to make up his mind. 

“All right, I agree,” he said at length. “Remember, I would 
not if it were anyone else, not that I distrust you for a second—I 
would just refuse to listen to a word. John Henry is different. 
I shall play my part for I like him and wish them both well; and 
I hope it will not prove disastrous. It is a dangerous proceeding, 
but I agree—on the condition mentioned.” 

Sheila—I am sorry to have to state it—achieved a complicated 
and most unlady-like grimace. 

“Beast!” she said. “It is so like a man to take an unfair 
advantage.” 

George remained unmoved. 

“Is it altogether an unfair advantage?” he asked. 


220 


LITTLE DAVID 


Sheila arose and went to the door, and when she had turned the 
handle, she looked back and spoke. 

“It would be,” she said, “if—if the two beautiful creatures had 
not both grown impatient.” 

George bounded to his feet, but the door was closed and locked 
before he could reach it. 

“Open the door, Sheila!” he pleaded. “Remember my coming 
ordeal!” 

“I refuse,” said Sheila, and then she laughed an odd little laugh. 
“Do you remember a small boy of twelve and a half who had a 
great ambition to be a second Sherlock Holmes?” 

“I do,” said George with a chuckle. “I remember the incident 
very clearly. The parson’s wife and Muggie had just come in by 
the french-window, and that made it worse, for I said ‘Oh!’ and 
frightened them both into fits.” 

“Do you remember nothing else?” 

“I do,” continued George, still chuckling. “I remember Muggie 
threatening to tell your father, and then turning the house up¬ 
side down for glue, putty, and a paint-brush. I remember 
a small girl standing on tip-toe, holding a square of wood 
in place while Fammy inserted putty and plied the paint-brush, 
and I remember wondering if it would stick in and stand the 
door being—oh!” 

“Yes!” said Sheila, in an uncertain voice. 

“Stand clear one moment,” said George. 

He ran his fingers over the door and struck it sharply with his 
clenched fist at a point almost level with the lock. A small square 
of wood fell out. 

“You can unlock the door—afterwards,” said Sheila, and a por¬ 
tion of her face appeared at the opening. 

George succeeded in unlocking the door—afterwards. By the 
time he did so Sheila had disappeared for the night. 

Next morning, at breakfast, George Cornwall learnt the story 
of the mutilation of the door for the first time. 


DETERMINES TO REMAIN 


221 


“Boys do the most absurd things,” he remarked. “Things with¬ 
out sense or reason.” 

“Muggie said it was foolish, at the time, but I believe now it 
was the best thing I ever did in my life,” said George with con¬ 
viction. “What do you think, Sheila?” 

“That you have taken a very long time to find it out,” said 
Sheila demurely. 

As George said afterwards, this was not a fair answer, taking 
all the circumstances of the case into consideration. 

George Cornwall listened to Sheila’s description of John Henry, 
in a state of panic over the production of his play, and he seemed 
greatly amused but somewhat moved to pity. He agreed to the 
suggestion that they should help him as much as lay in their power, 
and he stated that this had been his intention from the first. He 
was considerably startled, however, when he learnt that Sheila 
herself was to afford the necessary help. The idea did not appeal 
to him at all. He objected most strongly and said that it was absurd. 
Eventually he gave in, overpowered by argument and the logical 
reasoning of George, from whom he had expected opposition to the 
scheme and not support. 

“I believe,” he said to Muggie, later on in the morning, “George 
and Sheila had recovered from their attack of marriage-sickness. 
It was nonsense—we all knew that, but they were annoyed at us 
for saying so. George seems to have no objection to Sheila dancing 
off to London to help John Henry Millman, and that speaks for 
itself. I like the lad, but he is not the one for Sheila.” 

The sole reply Muggie made to this was to snort loudly and say: 
“I always knew there was nothing between them but nonsense 
to be shattered by the first man Sheila took a fancy to.” 

It is extremely probable that both George Cornwall and Muggie 
would have been surprised if somebody had told them that their 
belief in the absurdity of such a marriage arose from the fact that 
they did not want it to take place. It is more than probable that 
they would have been annoyed if the accident of poor George’s 


222 


LITTLE DAVID 


birth were put forward as a reason for this; but it was the case 
for all that. 

Sheila commenced to divide her days between her aunt’s abode 
in Kensington and the Red House, and she helped John Henry 
in his theatrical entanglements. She was quite competent to do 
so with an experience gained by aid of her father, who had written 
several plays that had been produced, and a few that had even 
paid. In this direction her efforts were praiseworthy and greatly 
to be commended, but her activities did not stop there. They 
went on. In fact they went on to a extent that made Little David 
gasp with mingled horror and astonishment, and caused John 
Henry to become exceedingly startled at times. Veronica went 
through a period of excessive indignation, at first, but this disap¬ 
peared suddenly and with amazing completeness. Mrs. Bald¬ 
win—she had an evil mind—had a good deal to say in the bar 
round the comer on the subject of Sheila. That young woman, on 
the occasions when she was at home, stated to young George that 
she had never worked so hard in all her life—with no result. This 
appeared to amuse young George, but it also made him vastly 
indignant. As for Fammy she reverted to her former statement 
about John Henry being in want of a pair of spectacles. 

He, poor man, was greatly harassed. He alternated between 
moments of exaltation and hours of the profoundest gloom. This 
was caused by the progress of his play towards completion. There 
were other results which arose from the same source, such as 
thoughts of murder towards innocent and deserving members of 
the theatrical profession; occasions when he arrived home in a 
cab and announced to Little David that they must leave London 
at once and never return—he left his hat, coat, stick, and Sheila, 
in the theatre on one of these hurried flights; and many other 
weird and fantastic happenings; but, apart from all this, he was 
exceedingly disturbed and for no reason that he could think of 
or imagine. Ever since he had spent the night in the Black Bull 
at Tipping Horley, John Henry had been ashamed of himself 


DETERMINES TO REMAIN 


223 


at odd moments. Now he was more than ashamed. He was 
thoroughly disgusted. 

Meditating of an evening in the company of Veronica and Little 
David, the strangest thoughts would come to him, suddenly, for no 
obvious reason. Once or twice he had been impelled to leave the 
house and go for a hasty tramp through the streets to rid himself 
of these disturbing fancies. The behaviour of Sheila, too, puzzled 
and distracted him. He liked the girl, admired her immensely, 
and was very grateful for her real and much-needed help; but she 
succeeded in making him exceedingly uncomfortable. He had 
thought her the essence of spontaneous gaiety and simplicity, 
leavened by a plentiful supply of sound common-sense, governed 
by a warm and generous heart. Now he did not know quite what 
to think. Her manner towards him was peculiar. It alternated 
between an embarrassing friendliness, and an equally disconcert¬ 
ing reserve. 

Often he caught her looking at him in the strangest of fashions; 
as if something preyed on her mind. She sighed a great deal, and 
when they were out together she kept so close to him that it was 
difficult to walk straight. More than once, in the theatre, he had 
turned round to find her standing behind him in a humble attitude; 
and on these occasions her face seemed to be full of a mute re¬ 
proach. When he addressed a remark directly to her she appeared 
to waken to a state of great pleasure. When he spoke to other 
people she relapsed once more into an apathetic and mournful 
condition. The only occasions on which she came to life as the 
Sheila John Henry had known and admired was when anything 
went wrong with the progress of the play. Then Sheila was normal 
and quite decided in her views and opinions. Her very voice 
was different. 

John Henry determined to speak to George on this subject on 
the very first opportunity. He was the more determined to do so 
since he had hinted to Sheila that she seemed ill, and her accept¬ 
ance of this remark had driven him to the conclusion that she 


224 


LITTLE DAVID 


was. This had happened in her aunt’s drawing-room in Kensing¬ 
ton, and Sheila had immediately walked to the window, stood 
for a time with her back turned on John Henry, and trembled 
violently. She had also spoken. 

“Please leave me alone,” she had said, in a voice quivering with 
suppressed emotion. 

John Henry, thoroughly scared, had done so without delay. All 
these things, as you might readily understand, gave John Henry 
much food for thought. When he was not thinking about them 
his attention rested on Little David. He, also, added to his 
troubles, for the boy seemed to be ailing. He said that he was 
quite well, but this was contradicted by his looks. His cheeks 
had grown pale and he was obviously thinner. He had periods 
of great depression. He went earlier to bed and he spent a great 
part of the day in his room. He was very silent of an evening, 
and the happiness of their first weeks together seemed to have 
faded from his face. His appearance moved John Henry to a pro¬ 
found compassion. He seemed so forlorn and disconsolate. There 
were times, however, when he was neither. On these occasions 
he was quite unmistakably indignant and even warlike. 

John Henry had once asked if there was any reason for all this 
—any reason that he could dispel. He did so in a gentle voice, 
for the inquiry came straight from his heart; and he never did it 
again. 

Little David made no response but he rose and hurriedly left the 
room. He was not seen again that night and Veronica did not 
put in an appearance till it was almost time to go to bed. Then 
she did, but only for a second. She spoke in that second, how¬ 
ever, and her words astounded John Henry. The tone of her 
voice, too, amazed him, for Veronica seemed annoyed. 

“Don’t you ever go and do it again,” she said, and then van¬ 
ished. 

John Henry spent an unsettled night wondering just what he 
had done. 


DETERMINES TO REMAIN 


225 


Sheila, arriving the next afternoon for tea, was side¬ 
tracked by Veronica half-way down stairs. There they held 
a whispered conversation. Veronica explained the episode of 
the previous night, at length, and with her own comments 
thereon. 

“No good arguing with Little David,” said Veronica in conclu¬ 
sion, “for his mind is made up to remain. There is only one 
person who can alter that and he would do so at once—if he found 
out. Little David refuses to help matters, and says it would be 
wicked if we interfered. It is hard, however, and I am sorry for 
the poor little soul. What he thinks about you would not look well 
on paper.” 

“That does not matter,” said Sheila, “for it will all come 
right in the end. Mabel Canning has no business to go on in this 
obstinate fashion—not that I blame her, for I might do the 
same myself. Little David has to suffer something for the 
privilege of being thought a boy. Don’t you worry, Veronica. I 
shall have a brain wave and act on it whenever this theatrical 
business is in good trim.” 

“The sooner the better,” said Veronica, “for I cannot bear to 
see the poor soul grow thinner and paler day by day.” 

Sheila left her at that, and mounting the stairs, entered John 
Henry’s room; and there she found Mabel Canning, for Little 
David sat hunched up on a chair in * an attitude of profound 
depression. Mabel Canning vanished at once, however, and it 
was Little David who arose and regarded her with a mute and 
reproachful stare. 

“John Henry will be in presently,” he said. “He has gone out 
to post a letter to George.” 

“To whom?” asked Sheila startled. 

“To George,” repeated Little David. “He thinks you are ill, 
and is very worried about it.” 

Sheila grew red and fought with a strong inclination to laugh. 
Little David remained mute. The two friends regarded each 


226 


LITTLE DAVID 


other; the one with attention and some uneasiness, the other with 
a strong and growing indignation. 

“SheilaI How can you? After all I said that night in your 
own room!” said Little David in a voice of reproach. 

Sheila was silent, for a moment, and then she spoke in a sup¬ 
pressed and quivering voice which sounded as if it arose from deep 
emotion. It did, and the emotion was of a mixed nature, being 
partly compounded of pity, amusement, and pain. 

“There are some things we cannot control,” she said. 

At that moment John Henry Millman walked into the room. 

Sheila was destined, as it happened, to find out the truth of her 
statement in a very short time. 


CHAPTER XVI 


THE CONSTERNATION OF JOHN HENRY MILLMAN 

You may have forgotten about the sick boy who travelled down to 
Tipping Horley on the day when John Henry arrived at the Red 
House, and so, for a time, had John Henry himself. He remem¬ 
bered, one morning, as he was returning from the theatre where 
his play had reached the point of a fixed date for the dress 
rehearsal, and the memory caused him to groan with annoyance. 
He was on a bus, at the time, having engaged in personal combat 
with several other gentlemen for the privilege of travelling 
thereon—he was late and had determined to be home early, for 
Little David seemed specially sad that morning; but this did not 
deter him from immediately casting himself into the street at the 
imminent risk of his life. 

The bus conductor—a young and talkative creature— was moved 
to comment on this to the rest of the bus. 

“Something has bitten that one—badly,” he remarked in a 
genial voice. “Let us hope it is not his wife!” 

The rest of the bus—they were a load of decent and self-respect¬ 
ing English people—preserved a stony silence. 

John Henry was badly bitten, at least he felt very sore over his 
omission, and exceedingly anxious to rectify the same. He searched 
for and found a telephone box, and from there he sought speech 
with the Red House. He knew that Sheila was at home, and he 
wished her to do him a favour. 

That young woman, as it happened, was seated with her elbows 
on the table and her head on her hands attempting to fathom 
just what she must do in the matter of John Henry and Little 

227 


228 


LITTLE DAVID 


David. A letter lay beside her—the letter George had received 
from John Henry—in which comment was made on the state of 
her health, on her own affection for young George, on young 
George’s affection for her, and on John Henry’s desire to see them 
both well and happy, and settled in an enjoyment of the good 
things that are in life—when one can find them. It was a very 
nice, a very touching, and an exceedingly genuine document. It 
had moved young George to a very little laughter and a very great 
compassion. Sheila was alone. George, in fact, had been dis¬ 
missed because he was unable to give any advice, and only able 
to say what Sheila herself felt—that she had failed signally in 
her efforts either to force Mabel Canning to proclaim her sex, or 
to arouse John Henry to the fact that he was in love with her or 
any other female creature in creation. This was a somewhat sore 
point with Sheila. She felt there was something wrong, but she 
was not angry with John Henry. That was an absurd thought. 
She was angry, however, so it had to be with George. Little 
David was too far distant at the moment to be useful in this 
capacity. 

She had reached the point of determining to hunt out George— 
he had retired wrapped in a mantle of offended dignity—and 
remind him that he was the originator of the entire situation, a 
process which would very easily blossom into a general discharge 
of her feelings at his head, when the telephone bell rang. It was 
a distraction, and she welcomed it gladly. 

The sound of John Henry’s voice,.speaking at the other end of 
the wire, shook her composure a trifle; and the text of his speech 
increased her discomfiture. John Henry, speaking in the urgent, 
pleading voice of one who has committed a wrong that must be 
immediately repaired, begged her to go over to Tipping Horley, 
have speech with the ancient porter, and find out how the sick boy 
fared. He, John Henry, had entirely forgotten his existence. It 
was a terrible thought, for the poor little fellow might be dead. 

Sheila was shattered. 


CONSTERNATION OF JOHN HENRY 


229 


There was some reason for this, considering that Muggie— 
kindly soul—had made several pilgrimages to the cottage on the 
other side of Tipping Horley; carried messages and other odd 
trifles such as money and dainty food to that humble abode; and 
returned heavily burdened on each occasion with words of grati¬ 
tude and quaint little speeches, some of which were intended for 
the ears of John Henry. These had been committed to Sheila, and 
lost by her in the interest aroused by her own exciting occupation. 
Not one of them had reached the ears of John Henry. Not even 
the fact that Fammy and the odd man—when they came to hear 
of it—had also found the cottage. It was impossible to say all this 
over the telephone and on the spur of the moment. 

The matter was complicated by the fact that the sick boy—with¬ 
out having actively expressed such a thing—had evinced a keen 
desire to see John Henry in person. This had been confided to 
Sheila. The sick boy was better now, having been persuaded into a 
desire for life through various acts of kindness and the absence of 
the fear that his poor wasted life was burdening his people with a 
too heavy drain on their feeble means, but he was far from recov¬ 
ered. Muggie had been of the opinion, for some time past, that 
John Henry would be able to give him an added encouragement to 
live. This also Sheila had heard of late. Quite recently, it is 
true, but still some days back. 

It was an appalling situation to combat in a moment. 

“You had better come down here at once and go over yourself,” 
gasped the poor girl in great distress. “What can I do? You 
would be a thousand times better, and then he wanted to see you. 
I—I have heard so!” 

In a case like this John Henry’s decisions were invariably sure 
and certain. His voice replied applaudingly the idea. He stated 
that, by running on some other unknown but rapid means of loco¬ 
motion, he would just manage to catch the through train. He 
would be in Tipping Horley that afternoon. 

“I shall meet you with the car,” said the conscience-stricken 


230 


LITTLE DAVID 


Sheila, but this was lost on John Henry. He had gone. It was 
a moment before Sheila grasped this fact, for he had omitted to 
replace the receiver on the hook. Sheila wondered what the tele¬ 
phone people thought. Judging by sundry conversations with 
these people, she came to the conclusion that their thoughts would 
be tinged with blood. They were. 

Sheila went through a period of acute remorse and then she 
confided the entire matter to young George. This eased her mind 
so that, when he made a simple remark, her intelligence 
jumped to the possibilities of the situation. Sheila became 
excited. 

“John Henry seems to be fated to deal with boys in distress,” 
remarked George. 

Sheila sprang to her feet, and her face glowed with animation. 

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “My plan will succeed. You see if it 
does not. My word! It is a blessing in disguise!” 

Her opinion became somewhat mitigated on this point in the 
course of time. 

John Henry arrived at Tipping Horley and was pleasantly sur¬ 
prised to find Sheila waiting for him with the car. He greeted the 
ancient porter with warmth and was exceedingly satisfied to 
learn that the boy’s condition was vastly improved. He was filled 
with gratitude at the news of Muggie’s pilgrimages and Fammy’s 
generosities through the medium of the odd man, and exceedingly 
annoyed with the odd man for stating that he himself was the 
prime mover of the entire matter. That, as John Henry remarked, 
considering the fashion in which he had callously behaved from 
the day when he had seen the boy, was utter nonsense. His 
conduct had been the height of selfishness. 

“I have been very wicked,” said Sheila penitently, as they drove 
along the country roads. “I have been given many messages for 
you, and forgotten to deliver them. I have no excuse except 
that—that I have been greatly distracted of late.” 

“I know,” said John Henry. “I have seen it myself and it has 


CONSTERNATION OF JOHN HENRY 


231 


worried me. We need say no more. You have some excuse for 
your forgetfulness. I have none.” 

He spoke with such assurance that Sheila was almost led to 
believe it true. She did, for a moment, and then she felt ashamed, 
and hung her head in distress. 

John Henry, perceiving this, grew exceedingly thoughtful. 

The sick boy was delighted. He was more than delighted. He 
was so pleased that they had to be careful of not exciting him too 
much. He lay and smiled, and the smile sat so oddly on his 
wasted face, that, taken in conjunction with a flush of pleasure, 
it proved too much for Sheila’s conscience. She went out into the 
back garden and frankly blubbered to the immense disappointment 
of a collection of ducks, hens, and turkeys, that had looked hope¬ 
fully on her in the light of food. The turkeys, in especially, were 
marvellously indignant. It is amusing to think that this outburst, 
which was absolutely genuine, relieved her feelings so that she 
could think hopefully on the success of her plan in the matter of 
Little David. Sheila was a good-hearted and very feminine girl. 

John Henry sat and talked with the sick boy—at least he sat 
when he could, but he was constantly rising to look out of the 
window. The reason he gave for this was because he feared the 
car might disappear. Whether he thought that the disreputable 
vehicle would suddenly move away of its own accord, or whether 
he imagined that the cat of the establishment who sat staring at 
it in a species of rapture—few cars ever stopped at that door—was 
likely to start the engine and go off on a world tour, did not 
transpire. He made no other explanation, but as he rubbed his 
eyes very hard on each occasion of looking out—to make doubly 
sure of his vision no doubt—there can be no question of the reality 
of the danger. No one did question it. 

The time came soon—very soon, when they must leave the boy 
for fear of exhausting him too much. He seemed quite willing 
for them to go, indeed he expressed a fear that he had detained 
them too long; but, first of all, he asked to be allowed to speak to 


232 


LITTLE DAVID 


John Henry for a few seconds by himself. This, as you may 
imagine, was readily granted—from the window, by the way, 
where John Henry had gone to look at the troublesome car. It was 
rather an ordeal for poor John Henry. He had a vague notion 
of what the boy might be about to say, but he was not prepared for 
what he did say. 

“You must not be offended,” he commenced. “I lie here and 
think when I cannot sleep. I have wanted to know so much, and 
uncle has told me about her. Tell me, is the young lady your 
sister?” 

John Henry was astounded and very far indeed from sus¬ 
pecting that the boy was talking about Little David, whom, you 
will remember, the ancient porter had seen in great distress 
on two—on three for that matter, I had forgotten about the 
morning when Veronica accompanied him up to London— 
occasions. 

“Certainly not!” said John Henry. “She is my friend.” 

“I am glad,” said the sick boy, and he turned to John Henry 
with a smile that was beautiful, “because now I can lie and hope 
that she loves you as I might do. You have no necessity to tell 
me that you love her, you who have compassion on everything that 
is helpless.” 

John Henry was completely shattered by this remark. He was 
so much shattered that he never quite knew how he got out of the 
house and into the car. He must have done so, however, for the 
next thing he was distinctly conscious of was that they were going 
along the road very slowly, and Sheila was talking to him. 
Sheila—he had never thought of her in that light—looked helpless. 
She felt helpless, too, for she was a nice girl and she liked 
John Henry; but her mind was made up, so she went on. The 
task was a difficult one, but the memory of her former fail¬ 
ures remained and rankled. Sheila was a woman, and a pretty 
one at that, and she was ignorant, unfortunately, of the sick 
boy’s words. She was determined, also, to finish off this 


CONSTERNATION OF JOHN HENRY 


233 


matter of Little David once and for all, and force that young 
gentleman to betray himself sufficiently to awaken John Henry’s 
suspicions. 

“You are very kind and considerate to other people,” she said 
slowly, “but not to everyone.” 

John Henry jumped and gave every indication of a desire to 
flee. 

This was unfortunate, for Sheila commenced to enjoy herself. 
She sighed. 

“You were very kind to the sick boy,” she continued, “but you 
did not think of what I was doing.” 

-“What were you doing?” asked John Henry breathlessly. 

“Crying in the back garden,” said Sheila, and then she grew 
ashamed and stirred the car into rapid motion. 

They flew along the road in silence, John Henry with his mind 
in a state of chaos, and Sheila with her mind in a condition 
divided between mirth and compunction. At the Red House 
John Henry stumbled out of the car and stood on the doorstep 
with a wild eye like a man who lost and does not believe that 
he is still on the earth. Sheila’s compunction increased and over¬ 
ruled her mirth. 

“Do not think of what I have said,” she exclaimed. “You 
know I am always talking nonsense.” 

Her voice was sincere and carried conviction. The conviction 
it carried to John Henry was one that frightened him exceedingly, 
but the sincerity seemed to him absolute. She did not wish him 
to worry . . .! The chaos of his mind disappeared. He 

no longer appeared to be afraid. He saw reason in Sheila’s 
attitude towards himself for the past weeks. He saw this by 
the light of her words taken in conjunction with the words of the 
sick boy; yet his own instinct jibbed at the conclusion. He 
thought of it all in a flash while Sheila stood by the car wondering 
what was working in his mind. She wondered still more when he 
entered the house, without saying a word, and with the assurance 


234 


LITTLE DAVID 


of one who knows just what he must do. Sheila, in truth, grew 
alarmed so that she delayed her own entry as long as possible. 

The matter was assuming a serious aspect in her own mind, 
and that was disturbing. 

John Henry walked straight into the sitting-room and there 
he found the person he sought—young George. He walked 
straight up to him—there was no one else in the room, but that 
would have made no difference so far as John Henry was con¬ 
cerned—placed both hands on his shoulders, and looked down 
into his face. 

“You love Sheila and she loves you?” he said, in the voice 
of one stating a fact which requires to be confirmed. 

George took great credit for maintaining the part assigned him 
under adverse circumstances—he got none, but that does not 
matter. As he said himself, it was only the customary reward of 
the righteous. He assumed a grave air that arose, in truth, from 
his own sincere desire. 

“We were boy and girl friends, lovers perhaps, but now that 
I am a man I wish to place her happiness first of all.” 

John Henry asked a second question. 

“Did Sheila speak to you before she commenced to help me 
with my play?” 

George felt that he could answer this with assurance. 

“She did,” he said. “We understand each other. Anything 
that she has done has been with my knowledge and approval. 
I am quite contented and happy.” 

“Thank you,” said John Henry quietly. 

He removed his hands from young George’s shoulders, walked 
out of the room, out of the house, and round to the shed where the 
car lived. There he found Sheila, rather red in the face, and look¬ 
ing decidedly scared. She gasped when John Henry appeared 
before her, and her cheeks grew pale. His air of determination 
was sufficient to startle her. 

“Sheila!” he said quietly. “There is something I have wanted 


CONSTERNATION OF JOHN HENRY 


235 


to tell you for a long time but my lips were sealed. I thought 
your wishes lay in a different direction. I feel that I can speak 
now. I would like to marry you. I shall do so—if it is your 
wish—whenever you please. You will make me very happy. It 
had not occurred to me that any woman might care for me in 
that light. I am very grateful.” 

Having said this John Henry bowed in an odd but rather 
engaging fashion, smiled in a very winning and touching fashion, 
removed his hat, and walked away. He walked past the house, 
out into the road, and encountering a heavy motor-lorry slowly 
insinuating itself round a sharp corner, swung himself up behind. 
He did this in the most natural fashion as if it were a habit of 
his, and his condition was that of the small boys at the back of a 
delivery-van, in place of a man brimming over with consterna¬ 
tion and many other emotions as well. He did not pause to 
consider that the lorry was rapidly taking him to some unknown 
destination. He did not think of it at all. He just acted—in 
obedience to a primeval instinct of flight. His mind was other¬ 
wise occupied. There were, in truth, quite a number of things 
to occupy it. The lorry was a covered one with an open back 
hung with curtains of tarpaulin. It was half-filled with packing 
cases and small barrels. He chose a barrel, seated himself with 
composure, leant his head against a packing case, and commenced 
to think. It proved a harrowing occupation. 

A long time elapsed while the lorry bumped and rattled along 
the country roads, just as John Henry’s thoughts bumped and 
jangled in his head. Then the lorry stopped before an inn, and 
the driver w 7 ent inside for a drink. He remained there—after 
the fashion of men who go in for one drink—and had two, and 
then a third just to make the number odd—he was fond of odd 
numbers after an experience in France during the war. It was 
necessary, too, to explain all this to the young woman behind the 
bar. It would not have been necessary if she had not been pretty. 
She was pretty. 


236 


LITTLE DAVID 


This was fortunate, for just as the driver of the lorry reached 
the exciting—it really was exciting when told after many repeti¬ 
tions—part of his tale, John Henry reached a comparative state 
of calm, and uttered a remark. 

“What is the good of being alive if you cannot bring hap¬ 
piness to at least one person?” he remarked. “I have nothing to 
worry about and a great deal, a very great deal, to be astonished 
and grateful for.” 

He looked round composedly on his surroundings and experi¬ 
enced a slight shock of astonishment. He parted the tarpaulin 
curtains, looked out, and his astonishment increased. He climbed 
down, studied the lorry with attention, and took a mental note 
of the number. 

“LX 44571 I must have climbed in there at some time,” said 
John Henry profoundly, and he passed down the road. It might 
—according to his voice and manner—have been at some long 
past date—say several years previously. 

He gained the main street of a small town and walked on, 
turned to the left and still walked on. A woman, meeting him, 
paused, and recognising in him a stranger, asked if he knew where 
he was going. After a moment of reflection it occurred to John 
Henry that he did not. 

“When I come to think of it—no,” said John Henry. 

The woman looked at him strangely. 

“I thought not,” she said, “seeing you are a stranger here. 
This road goes nowhere but to the church, and although some 
of the tombs are interesting it will soon be too dark to see the 
stones, lay aside read the inscriptions.” 

John Henry shivered but he answered at once. 

“I believe,” he said, “that is where I must go sooner or later— 
to church I mean,” he explained, as the woman retreated a pace, 
“but I have no wish to see this one. Perhaps you can direct 
me to the station. I have only just arrived here and wish to 
leave the place at once.” 


CONSTERNATION OF JOHN HENRY 


237 


The woman led him there. This was kind, but he was a per¬ 
fect God-send to her. She is still talking about the odd man 
who looked sane but made such curious statements, and the amaz¬ 
ing fact that he had not the slightest idea of where he was, what 
the name of the village was, what he was doing there, or why he 
had come. One point about him saddened her greatly. He knew 
where he was going—London, and the train came in almost at 
once. She will continue to talk about him for the rest of her life. 
John Henry had supplied her with something invaluable. All 
her life she had been talking, and now, at length, she had found 
a subject that interested other people. There was one drawback 
however. She was a lady, and her digestion was doomed to be 
irretrievably ruined. No dinner-party in the village was con¬ 
sidered complete without her once the story had gained weight. 
It was so interesting to hear the fresh additions! 

In the train a sudden thought came to John Henry and caused 
him to groan, thereby disturbing the peace of mind of an elderly 
gentleman, and a lady with a child; not to speak of the young 
woman who sat opposite and who imagined that he had been star¬ 
ing at her with interest. He had remembered that Little David 
would be anxiously awaiting his return, and he would not be back 
till close on midnight. This brought a second and more distress¬ 
ing idea to life. 

What was Little David to do now? 

John Henry buried his face in his hands and groaned for the 
second time, and the young woman left the carriage at the next 
station with a toss of her head and a muttered remark about 
lunatics being prevented from travelling in trains. The lady with 
the child was due to get out at the next station but one, and she 
was not sorry. As for the old gentleman he sat out the entire 
journey, but he kept his eyes fixed on John Henry, and his 
hand uplifted to grasp the communication cord. It did not prove 
necessary, however, to stop the train. 

About the same time, in the Red House, Sheila was finding 


238 


LITTLE DAVID 


out the truth of her statement to Little David that there were 
some things over which one has no control. John Henry had 
assumed the proportion of one of these things. Young George 
suffered in consequence. This was illogical but strictly feminine. 
The two young people had departed in the car to catch John 
Henry at the station on his way back to Town. He was not there. 
He had not been seen there. He had not been seen anywhere. 
He was not seen anywhere. He appeared to have vanished into 
thin air. 

They found this hard to believe—as people do find what they 
fail to understand hard to grasp. They waited, and watched, 
and searched—all with no result. Then George suggested the 
advisability of his going up to London, but the last train had gone. 
He then made the suggestion that a telegram should be sent to 
John Henry, and he was half killed for having made it since 
the post office was now shut for the night. 

The evening passed in an unwonted silence that made George 
Cornwall and Muggie grow alarmed and suspicious. The two 
young people increased this impression for they started at every 
step outside the door. The older members of the Cornwall family 
went to bed, and neither of them would have been astonished 
if some dire catastrophe had occurred in the night. They would 
even have been filled with a sensation of relief that the suspense 
was past and over. They were certain that Sheila had been doing 
something startling and out of the common, and on consideration, 
perhaps she had. They went to bed earlier than was their usual 
custom, for they had no wish to hear anything. That, they 
thought, might be worse than knowing nothing. Perhaps it was. 

“George! I feel a beast—a perfect beast!” said Sheila, when 
they were assured that their elders were settled for the night. 
“I wish I had not started this wretched business! If you had 
seen the way he looked at me. It was heart-rending! Why did 
you act so well?” 

George groaned. 


CONSTERNATION OF JOHN HENRY 


239 


“I did my best,” he said, “and small thanks I get for it. He 
looked at me also, put himself as you might say into my hands. 
It was not pleasant for me.” 

“Don’t you be a beast too,” said Sheila. “One beast is enough 
in this house,” and she burst into tears. 

George comforted her to the best of his ability. He did very 
well, for a time, and then he made a foolish slip. 

“After all,” he said, “this is just what you wanted, so it is not 
so bad as you think.” 

It was a fatal remark and he suffered for it. The fatal part 
about it was that it happened to be true; only, as Sheila explained, 
it was a case of perverted truth because her plan had not been 
calculated to cause this disturbance. George may have been 
foolish in some respects but he had moments of wisdom. He 
refrained from asking what her plan had been. 

“We must send him a telegram in the morning,” he said. “We 
can concoct it now and have it in readiness.” 

This wise thought cleared the air. Sheila grew composed and 
argued fiercely over the wording of that telegram. It assumed 
many shapes, and forms, and sizes, but at length it read: “Sheila 
and George very sorry. They want to be forgiven immediately. 
Please return or let us come to you.” 

They both grew more cheerful when this result was reached. 

“I shall go out and send it off before breakfast,” George an¬ 
nounced at the foot of the stairs. 

“I should not do that,” said Sheila. “We have had so much 
trouble, we might as well wait and learn what happens to Little 
David. He is bound to speak. My plan may succeed after all.” 

George remained silent. He was profiting by experience. He 
would, it is presumed, make, in time, an excellent husband. Per¬ 
haps this was the reason why Sheila, suddenly and for no obvious 
cause, kissed him at the top of the stairs. George—his wisdom 
on this particular evening was almost supernatural—was pleased, 
but with a reservation. He wanted to know if Sheila had been 


240 


LITTLE DAVID 


struck with another idea. As it happened she had, but the idea 
was not one to which he would have had any objection. 

It was: “What a lucky girl I am with dear old George!” 


CHAPTER XVII 


IN WHICH LITTLE DAVID FLEES PRECIPITATELY 

Philip Canning had been accustomed, all his life, to receive 
an abnormal amount of consideration and attention from the 
people with whom he came in contact. His wealth, position, and 
the favours that he could bestow made this natural. On the 
arrival of the period when, for the first time in his existence, he 
really was worthy of a little attention, no one seemed to consider 
him at all. It was very amusing and quite natural. The people 
who fawned on him for what they could get, or appreciated the 
efforts of his cook and the soundness of his wines, remained the 
same—naturally. There was no reason why they should alter. 
The man had not gone bankrupt! Since he purposely avoided 
them from the time of Mabel’s disappearance, they did not count; 
and the people whom he now sought to approach, far from 
being gratified thereby, appeared to be filled with resentment at 
the sight of his face. 

They were all travellers encountered on that stony road on 
which his feet were set—the road to his own heart. It is not to 
be wondered at that they looked on him askance. What had he 
in common with them, this man who had spent his life wrapped 
in the dignity of his name, fame, wealth; active in pursuit of 
money, decently blinded to anything but what he desired to see, 
and keenly interested in his engineering devices! Nothing! 
Less than nothing, for they were all in search of one thing—hap¬ 
piness, and they all knew the story of Little David. 

When he approached them Philip Canning was in search of 
both, but he was not aware of the fact at the time. An iceberg 

241 


242 


LITTLE DAVID 


does not melt in a day even under the rays of the hottest of suns, 
and an iceberg is unprotected. Philip Canning was not an ice¬ 
berg, and he was protected. He was protected by a number of 
things of which wealth, comfort, pride, indignation, and his own 
immense and wonderful dignity were a few. He was very un¬ 
fortunate, poor man, and he was quite unaware of the fact. 

When, driven to desperation by the continued failure of the 
police to find even a clue of where Mabel might be, he had 
approached his two partners as a man, and a more or less humble 
one at that, he had done so with the thought in his mind that 
they were his paid servants. Silence was necessary for them. It 
was not a good spirit in which to seek help, and he had returned 
from that interview rather the worse for it than otherwise. 

The suggestion of Sinclair Dodds, on the advisability of plac¬ 
ing the matter before John Henry Millman, maddened him when 
he considered it in the quiet of his study. To think that he should 
place the intimate affairs of his home life before an unknown 
author, a thing lifted out of the gutter with an array of pawn- 
tickets in his hat, lifted to be kept up till it was sucked dry 
—supposing it went dry suddenly, or placed in an elevated spot 
dignified and surrounded by the glory of Canning and Canning— 
supposing the sucking proved protracted! It was absurd! It was 
more than absurd. It was not decent! Philip Canning disliked 
all indecency. He simmered over the thought, but he was a man 
of habit. 

He had acquired a fresh habit, one added to the daily routine 
of his life since the disappearance of Mabel. He was wont to sit, 
when the house was still and there was no chance of disturbance, 
with the box of cigarettes at his elbow and the letter from Fammy 
in his hand. On these occasions he travelled far down his stony 
road, but it was only in thought. He had done so on the evening 
after the interview with his two partners, and his views were some¬ 
what modified thereby. 

He made no effort to approach John Henry Millman, but the 


LITTLE DAVID FLEES 


243 


next day he went to see Fammy. She opened the door herself. 
As he was wondering how to start a conversation, Fammy gave 
him a little assistance. She shut the door in hi's face. She did 
not bang it shut, but closed it gently and firmly. 

The idea which came to Philip Canning was that the woman 
must be ill. There could be no other explanation. He knocked 
a .second time. There was an interval, the sound of whispering, 
and then the door opened. A tall, thin, melancholy-looking man 
appeared. He did not look at Philip Canning, but his two eyes 
gazed intently on two widely divergent points, one on either side 
of his head. Philip Canning was startled at this apparition. 
The man spoke and his words were calculated to startle him 
still more. 

“People who come to the wrong door usually go away when 
they find out their mistake,” said the apparition, and then the 
door was closed and locked. 

It was several moments before Philip Canning was able to 
walk away from that closed door, and when he did this, his 
thoughts were chaotic. The senior partner of Canning and Can¬ 
ning insulted by a serving-woman, and a man with a cast in his 
eye! Two people not worth more than a few pounds apiece! 
Incredible! An insult brought to him by his own—it was hours, 
in the stillness of the night to be exact, before he could add the 
word daughter. 

He did not again approach Fammy’s door, but he was assured 
that she knew where Mabel was. He made no attempt to ap¬ 
proach any door for a long time. Then one day he met George 
Cornwall in Town and they talked. To give him his due, he 
attempted to broach the subject of Mabel, to ask if George Corn¬ 
wall had, by some wild chance, any knowledge of her whereabouts; 
but he could not. Pride kept his lips sealed. He was distant, 
polite, and exceedingly interested in the progress of John Henry’s 
play. That was all. 

The two men stood on the platform at Paddington station, 


244 


LITTLE DAVID 


both waiting for the same train. It came in, and George Corn¬ 
wall made a remark with obvious relief. 

“I invariably travel third,’’ he said. “Good-day l” 

Philip Canning watched him go in silence. 

All this time he was spending money like water, employing 
police, private detectives, and other humourous people who came 
and went in all manner of pleasing disguises—with no result. 
Mabel had been absent now—for the sake of her health—for 
several weeks. Philip Canning was prevented from going out 
amongst his friends by a sudden pressure of important business. 
The business, as a matter of fact, commenced to be neglected. 
There were days when he did not think of it at all, but all his 
efforts were made in secret, and with a view to concealment. He 
suffered, but he suffered through the medium of his damaged 
dignity, not from the pain of a damaged heart. That organ was in 
a state of discomfort, oppressed as you might say, and the oppress¬ 
ion grew worse day by day; but if Mabel had unexpectedly walked 
in, he would merely have experienced an immense relief and 
immediately sent her to some secure and far distant spot. He 
was alive, scarcely what might be called sentient, yet he was wak¬ 
ing up slowly. 

He never doubted Mabel’s guilt. This was a point in his 
favour. He held a theory, based on the shadow seen on the 
blind, that the girl was living concealed with a lover. There 
were moments when he imagined horrible things, but they were 
few. He was a man of reason. If the girl had no place to go 
to, she would not have left her home for no reason other than his 
own natural indignation! Of an evening when he sat down and 
meditated, he could see clearly how all this might have been 
averted by an interest on his part in her life, and he regretted 
the omission bitterly; but in the day-time, conscious of the regard 
of his household, smarting under the memory of the slights he 
had received from Fammy and other people of no account, the 
fires of resentment burned with a steady violence. 


LITTLE DAVID FLEES 


245 


Then one day he slipped on a piece of orange peel in Charing 
Cross Road, caught the arm of a passer-by to steady himself, 
and held a long conversation with a policeman. That altered the 
entire aspect of the case. This may sound absurd, but it is the 
simple truth. The passer-by happened to be the Dainty Brute, 
and he had no knowledge of the orange peel. He had a knowledge 
of Philip Canning, however, and when that gentleman clutched his 
arm, he imagined that the action was one of attack. He fled. 
Philip Canning was discomfited. To his mind it appeared that 
even strangers were commencing to shrink from him. 

A young, fresh-faced policeman, who had been watching the 
incident, came up and saluted. He knew Philip Canning by 
sight, and he was of the opinion that Philip Canning knew the 
Dainty Brute. He was curious to learn how this came about, 
so he determined to probe into the matter. To run the Dainty 
Brute to earth would be a feather in his cap. He had an added 
interest in the man, too, engendered by John Henry Millman and 
Little David. 

“If you have any reason for wishing to detain that bird, sir,” 
he said, “just tell me. We know him well and are waiting for a 
chance to trip him up.” 

Philip Canning was astonished but relieved. The man had 
fled through a sense of fear. 

“I slipped,” he said. “The action was purely instinctive.” 

The constable laughed. 

“Oh!” he said. “I hoped that you might be an indignant 
father.” 

Philip Canning, being after a fashion an indignant father, 
was curious. He asked the man to explain. In the succeeding 
moments he learnt enough about the supposed activities of the 
Dainty Brute in the direction of snaring, ruining, and utilising 
young girls for his own profit, to make him go sick of a sudden 
and cling to a lamp-post for support. He had been going to the 
office of Canning and Canning, but he went home instead—to 


246 


LITTLE DAVID 


think. He was a man blessed with much common-sense and 
little imagination. The result of his thoughts made him summon 
the housekeeper. 

She came, and was shocked and astonished at the change in 
his appearance and expression. He told her that all efforts to 
trace Mabel had proved fruitless, that he had imagined her to 
be with—he halted over this—the owner of the hat, but the point 
remained uncertain. He said that it had not occurred to him that 
she might be in serious trouble or danger. He explained that 
he had wished to keep the matter secret because of the disgrace 
to his name. Then he asked what she thought. 

She looked at him in silence for a few moments, with a 
stunned, horrified face, and then her eye-lids hid her eyes. 

“I am your servant, sir. I cannot think,” she said. 

“Speak, woman!” he said roughly. “I command—no, beg you 
to do so.” 

She spoke. She told him what she thought, and she had been 
thinking quite a lot of late. Her remarks do not require to be 
stated. The last few words were sufficiently illuminating to 
make all that went before unnecessary. 

“I do not like to think now,” she said. “I can only hope that 
the poor child is dead.” 

After that she left Philip Canning alone. It was the kindest 
thing to do. 

He reached the end of his stony road a short time before the 
dawn. 

Next morning he called on Fammy almost as soon as that kindly 
soul had arisen from bed. She did not again shut the door in 
his face, but she regarded him with great disfavour. 

“I have discovered that my child has never had a father,” 
he said quietly, “and I must ask her if she wants one now. 
She is lost. Will you listen to my story and help me find her. 
You are her foster mother and you seem happy. You would be 
distressed as I am now, if you had no idea of where she is!” 


LITTLE DAVID FLEES 


247 


Fammy’s face softened a trifle, but she shook her head. 

“You have taken too long to make the discovery for me to help 
you,” she said, “but I can send you to one that might,” and 
she gave him John Henry Millman’s name and address. 

This, to say the least of it, astounded Philip Canning; but 
he went. He arrived on the door-step of John Henry’s abode on 
the afternoon when that gentleman was careering towards the 
sick boy in the car with Sheila Cornwall. He rang the bell. 
After an interval he again did so. After a still longer interval 
he commenced to ring the bell continuously for moments on end. 
Veronica, as it happened, was busy washing the first-floor landing. 

Mrs. Baldwin answered the door in person. 

This, as a start, was disconcerting to Philip Canning, for 
Mrs. Baldwin’s appearance was decidedly against her. Her face 
was too reminiscent of a piece of raw meat gone bad to be strictly 
pleasant if she happened to be annoyed. On the present occasion 
she was exceedingly annoyed. 

“Weill” she demanded aggressively. 

“Might I see Mr. Millman?” asked Philip Canning, retreating 
a step. 

Mrs. Baldwin, not deigning to reply, beckoned him to follow 
her,* indicated a door, and plunged down the back stairs. Philip 
Canning, greatly discomfited, entirely out of his element in the 
dingy surroundings, knocked at the door in a diffident fashion. 

“May I come in?” he asked. 

He imagined that he heard a startled gasp, a sudden movement 
as of one in precipitate flight, but of this he was uncertain. The 
house of Mrs. Baldwin abounded in strange noises to anyone fool¬ 
ish enough to linger in the passages. He opened the door and 
looked in. The room appeared to be empty. There were signs 
as if someone had been seated by the fire, but no one seemed to 
be there. 

“Mr. Millman,” he said, raising his voice, “are you in? It is 
Mr. Canning speaking!” 


248 


LITTLE DAVID 


A sound of scrubbing overhead ceased, and a face appeared and 
gazed down over the banisters. 

“What do you want?” asked Veronica. 

Philip Canning advanced to the foot of the stairs and looked 
up. He opened his mouth to speak but a change in the expression 
of the sallow face caused him to pause in wonderment. The face 
had suddenly become alarmed. 

Veronica came rapidly down the stairs, passed him, went to 
John Henry’s room, and peered in. Then she went to the ad¬ 
joining door, opened it, and peered in there also. Finally she 
closed the door of John Henry’s room and walked back, but she 
remained between Philip Canning and these two doors, and 
she squared her elbows in a particularly aggressive fashion. 

“What do you want?” she repeated. 

“I called to see Mr. Millman. Is he at home?” 

“No,” said Veronica, “but if you tell me what you want to 
see him for, then he might be at some future time. Otherwise 
he will not. I answer all the bells in this house.” 

Philip Canning gasped. 

“I cannot do that,” he said. “Please tell me when he is likely 
to return. I wish to see him as soon as possible. It is very 
urgent.” 

Veronica took no heed of the question. 

“You would not like to see anyone else,” she said. “His 
little brother, for example?” 

This was more than Philip Canning, even in his distressed and 
altered state, could stand. 

“Certainly not,” he said sharply. “Please answer my question. 
You are paid, I imagine, to be civil to people.” 

“He has gone to the theatre,” said Veronica, “and may not 
be back for hours. You had best go home and write to him. 
He is very seldom here.” 

Philip Canning, thoroughly annoyed, stalked out of the house 
with dignity. Veronica followed him to the door, and watched 


LITTLE DAVID FLEES 


249 


his receding figure till it had disappeared from sight; then she 
returned to John Henry’s room, looked all round, went behind 
the screen, but there appeared to be no one about. She examined 
the adjoining room with a like result. She came back into John 
Henry’s room, stood in the middle of the floor, and spoke in a 
voice of vexation. 

“The boy has disappeared. Wherever can he have gone? Mr. 
John will be furious if he does not return.” 

A scared voice came from the direction of the screen. 

“Has he gone, Veronica?” 

“He has,” said Veronica, “but where on earth are you?” 

“Under the bed,” said the voice. “That was my father. What 
did he want? Is he coming back? Does he know that I am 
here?” 

“He does not,” said Veronica, “and I do not think he will 
return. As for what he wanted that will be a business matter. 
It could be nothing else. I knew he was your father, for you 
are a little like him when you are angry. You had better come 
out from under the bed, Little David. What would Mr. John 
think if he found you there?” 

“I—I cannot,” gasped the voice. “At least I must, but I 
cannot face him just now.” 

Veronica was aroused to a sense of curiosity. 

“Is the boy mad?” she asked in wonderment. “Does he think 
that he can spend the rest of his life under a bed?” 

“Don’t you understand,” came the voice, in a sudden, agonized 
outburst. “Little David has fled for the time being, scared 
away by—by everything. I was thinking, and then, quite sud¬ 
denly, I heard him speak.” 

There was a hideous clatter, a shrill, furious voice screeching 
with annoyance, and then the sound of many waters flowing and 
dripping to some unknown destination. 

Veronica sighed in a resigned and philosophical fashion. 

“That is the first-floor front,” she said. “I left the bucket 


250 


LITTLE DAVID 


outside her door. She has just fallen over it. My! What a 
mess for me to clean up!” She went to the door, and there 
she paused, struck, it appeared, with a sudden inspiration. “ I be¬ 
lieve you are right,” she said with animation. “If Little David 
has fled, you must keep out of the way till he returns. I don’t 
want to see you myself. It would not be fair. I’m going to 
mop up the water and listen to the first-floor front talking 
pleasant-like. She will have to wash her feet after this and that 
will be bound to distress her.” 

After the door had closed, a sorry figure, hiding in the clothes 
of Little David, appeared from behind the screen and crept 
into the adjoining room. John Henry had thought that Little 
David seemed exceptionally sad and pensive that morning. He 
had been. He had spent the entire forenoon seated before the 
fire in a deep meditation, and the result of his thoughts had in¬ 
creased his sadness. He had failed to fathom any means by 
which he could alter the peculiarity of his present position without 
disclosing that which he was more than unwilling to do. To 
make a bald statement of the facts of his case, or to allow any 
other person to do so, or even to permit of a hinting at this, was 
repugnant and distasteful to his sensibilities. After that, he felt, 
it would be quite impossible to face John Henry. Not to be able 
to face John Henry would entail never seeing him again. That, 
Little David was assured, would be a catastrophe too fearful to 
even think of. Now it appeared to have arrived—for a time at 
least. 

The peculiar part of the business lay in the fact that if John 
Henry found out about the existence of Mabel Canning with no 
aid but his own, and approved of it, then the entire aspect of 
the case would be altered. Little David would then—with sundry 
fears, and blushings, and tremblings—be quite competent to face 
John Henry, and to continue facing him for a time that was in¬ 
definite. This indefinite time had occupied the mind of Little 
David during the earlier part of the afternoon, and the thought 


LITTLE DAVID FLEES 


251 


of it was not displeasing. In the midst of this meditation had 
come the voice of Philip Canning at the door, and Little 
David had fled precipitately and completely. The sorry figure, 
hiding in his clothes, sat on the edge of the bed and continued 
to think. 

It was an odd sight—that cowering, shrinking figure. It 
was not Little David, of that there can be no doubt. It also 
did not appear to be Mabel Canning. Perhaps it was something 
mid-way between the two. In any case it was not happy. It 
suffered, and shook, and seemed infinitely lost, and forlorn, 
and pathetic. 

At supper-time the hand and arm of Veronica appeared round 
the door, and the hand of Veronica deposited a tray on the floor. 
The voice of Veronica uttered a few remarks about the advisa¬ 
bility of eating, locking the door, and sleeping. The voice also 
made a further statement that need not be repeated but impelled 
the shrinking figure to jump up and catch hold of the hand that 
still grasped the tray. When this happened the hand freed itself, 
immediately withdrew, and the door was closed. 

The shrinking figure had no desire for food. It returned to 
the edge of the bed and what it thought about is hard to say, 
but at one time Philip Canning must have been the subject, for 
the face grew stern and angry, and then became infinitely sad. 
Later on Sheila Cornwall must have come into consideration, for 
the line of the mouth grew very straight, the face flushed and 
indignant, and the expression one of great resentment. Then 
Little David himself must have come up for judgment for, about 
eight o’clock, the shrinking figure seemed to shrivel up and 
diminish to half its size, and give every indication of a desire 
to dissolve and disappear entirely. Finally, on the stroke of ten, 
a fresh train of thought came to life, and the shrinking figure 
sat up with a gasp. 

John Henry had not returned. 

The influence of this thought impelled the shrinking figure to 


252 


LITTLE DAVID 


rap on the dividing wall. Veronica, who sat in the next room, 
immediately came out into the passage. 

“Well!” said Veronica. “What is the matter?” 

“Veronica! He has not come back. Something may have 
happened to him!” 

Veronica snorted. 

“Nonsense,” she said. “These theatrical people have detained 
him. He will be in presently. You go to bed. I shall wait up.” 

The voice of the shrinking figure came in tones of sudden 
panic, yet there was a quality about it that was absolutely assured. 

“Veronica, you must not tell him anything! That must not 
happen. I shall go away altogether, if it is necessary, but never 
that. You know him as well as I do. If he thought that I had 
stayed here because—because . . . ! You know what he 
would do. It would not matter what he thought himself. He 
would think only of me. You must promise not to speak!” 

Veronica promised on the condition of an immediate retiral to 
bed. This condition was granted and adhered to. Both Little 
David and Mabel Canning were simple and truthful people, so 
it did not occur to the shrinking figure to do otherwise. 

It may have been the added comfort of lying at ease. It may 
not. That is a point difficult, nay impossible, to determine. The 
fact remains that the tenor of the thoughts of the figure between 
the bed-clothes became more pleasant. The change started with 
the fear of an accident to John Henry. A tormenting and ter¬ 
rible thought but one that bore pleasant consequences in its train 
—in the mind of the thinker. The thinker became a nurse, a 
nurse tending a fevered, tossing patient, very ill of course, but 
not for one moment in any real danger. The rest in bed would 
be good for the patient. This was an assured point. In this 
occupation Little David, Sheila, and many other subjects of 
annoyance were forgotten. Curiously enough Philip Canning 
was not. He was rich . . . ! Dreams are odd. They 

are so elastic and accommodating to the requirements of 


LITTLE DAVID FLEES 


253 


the dreamer. As the clocks were striking midnight, the dream 
of the figure in the bed became reality in a manner of speak¬ 
ing. The figure commenced to dream in earnest. Sleep had 
intervened. 

At half-past twelve, precise to the moment, John Henry burst 
into his own room as if blown there by a whirlwind. Veronica, 
who sat in her accustomed seat by the fire, thought that he had 
all the appearance of having been out in one. He looked—there 
is no other expression for it—wild, like an untamed horse. He 
also looked half starved. He was. He had not touched food 
since breakfast. 

The whirlwind, which had started when he remembered about 
Little David in the train, and gone on increasing in velocity 
minute by minute, burst from his lips before Veronica had time 
to utter more than a startled gasp. 

“I refuse to be parted from him,” said John Henry fiercely, 
“unless he wishes it himself. That would be different and I 
should raise no objection if it were for his own good. Other¬ 
wise he stays with me. My mind is made up!” 

“Who do you think you are talking about?” asked Veronica. 

“Little David,” said John Henry, looking, if possible, wilder 
than ever. 

“Then you are too late with your decision,” said Veronica 
sedately, “for Little David has disappeared.” 

It was rather hard on poor John Henry to hear this, in the 
middle of the night, after a day of harrowing experiences. He 
stood and stared at Veronica like a lost soul on the borders of 
torment. 

“Fled!” he said in a dazed voice. “Where has he fled to?” 

“Just what I wondered myself,” said Veronica, nodding sagely, 
“when I came down and found that he had vanished.” 

John Henry sat down on a chair, buried his face in his hands, 
and groaned in a great bitterness of spirit. 

“My God!” he said. “While I have been wandering all over 


254 


LITTLE DAVID 


the country thinking of myself, the poor little fellow has been, 
perhaps, in the most terrible trouble. I am a selfish beast.” 

Veronica regarded his bent head with considerable affection, 
and a softened expression that sad oddly on her sallow, unlovely 
face. 

“It must have been something exceptional that made you 
think of him,” she said with assurance. “I did not believe it 
possible!” 

“Think of—what do you mean?” asked John Henry wildly. 

“Yourself,” said Veronica shortly. “I did not know you knew 
such a person existed.” 

John Henry arose and executed the first few steps of what 
appeared to be an incantation to the gods of unrest. He paused 
in the middle of this occupation, and again sitting down, begged 
Veronica to tell him what had happened, what she had done, if 
she had any idea where Little David might be, and what she 
thought they ought to do. 

Veronica said: “I was washing the first-floor landing.” 

“Soap that smells of paraffin,” muttered John Henry. “I know 
the stuff well.” 

Veronica smiled and nodded. 

“The front door bell rang but I paid no attention. Mrs. 
Baldwin was in the kitchen,” explained Veronica with reserve, 
“and how could I know it was for you?” 

John Henry half rose from his chair but relapsed at a gesture 
of indignation from Veronica. 

“You must not start rushing about,” she said. “What you 
want to do is to sit still and think.” She paused for a moment 
to allow the remark to take root. “The first I heard was a voice 
calling on you, and somebody rapping; and when I looked 
down there was a man staring into your room. He saw me and 
came to the foot of the stairs, and when I saw his face I came 
down at once. I went to look for Little David to make sure that 
he was safe, but I could not see him, so I confined my attention 


LITTLE DAVID FLEES 


255 


to the man. He wanted to see you—on a business matter, no 
doubt. I thought he might be after Little David, but he was not, 
for I asked him straight. Lie went away with a flea in his ear 
for I did not want him to return. You will probably have a 
letter in the morning.” 

“But Little David!” exclaimed John Henry. 

“He must have known the man and been afraid of him,” said 
Veronica, nodding sagely, “for I have not set eyes on the boy 
since then. I searched all over the place but he had vanished. 
My opinion is that the man was his father. When Little David 
is annoyed his mouth is not unlike the mouth of the man.” 

'' John Henry arose stiffly, petrified by a sudden memory. 

“Good heavens!” he exclaimed. “Like Little David when his 
mouth is straight. Why, I have been worried by a resemblance 
to someone I know and I remember now who it is—Philip Can¬ 
ning! He cannot be the boy’s father. It is preposterous. He 
would never call here on business. What was the man like, 
Veronica?” 

“The tallest, thinnest man I have ever set eyes on,” said 
Veronica. 

John Henry’s state bordered on lunacy. 

“It must be,” he exclaimed. “Was he very dignified, very 
severe and terrible, very much like a stone statue of something 
greater than a man? Did he frighten you and make you feel 
like a worm, ashamed of being alive?” 

Veronica became alarmed but she also became indignant. 

“Certainly not,” she said. “There was nothing exceptional 
about him at all. He seemed worried, and anxious, and his face 
was drawn and lined. He was like any other man, and he did 
not seem too tall because he was holding himself erect. I 
should like to see the man who would make me feel like a worm! 
He was more like one himself, for if he had not been in some 
distress or other, he would have been like a plank of wood— 
hard, and unbending, and unsympathetic.” 


256 


LITTLE DAVID 


John Henry sat down. 

“It is very mysterious,” he said, “but it cannot be the man I 
think of. What have you done about Little David?” 

“Nothing!” said Veronica shortly. 

“Nothing!” repeated John Henry in dismay. “Veronica, 
you-” 

Veronica arose briskly to her feet and announced her inten¬ 
tion of going to bed. 

“You sit and think,” she said. “Little David has disappeared, 
vanished completely so that I could not find him anywhere. I 
was on the first floor. This man, who might be his father, 
arrived. He spoke. I came down, and Little David had dis¬ 
appeared. He was not to be found anywhere. He has not re¬ 
turned. I have not worried at all for I thought that the boy 
would come back—if you desired it. So he will.” 

John Henry clasped his head in his hands. 

“For heaven’s sake do not go away,” he said. “If I want the 
boy to come back, he will come back! Where is he? How can 
I tell him to come back? You will drive me mad!” 

Veronica opened the door and stood half in, and half out, of the 
room. 

“You think,” she said profoundly. “You sit and think. There 
is quite a lot for you to think about. Think of yourself for ex¬ 
ample. What has made you go rushing out of the house as if 
something had bitten you of an evening?” 

John Henry’s appearance altered. He commenced to look wild 
again, and he also looked scared. 

“Veronica!” he said in a voice of anguish. “I forgot to tell 
you. I am in love. I have just been told—I mean I have just 
found out to-day!” 

Veronica seemed to be highly gratified by this astounding in¬ 
formation. 

“You think,” she repeated and she nodded a great number of 
times, looking thereby rather like a Chinese idol with a moveable 



LITTLE DAVID FLEES 


257 


head. “I could have told you that any time after you spent a 
night away from home—when I came to think about it. You 
think—hard, and remember that I am not worried about where 
Little David may be!” 

She closed the door softly and went up the stairs to bed. 

John Henry stood in front of the fire clutching his head. 
It is to be presumed that he followed Veronica’s advice and 
thought—hard. He had all the signs of one so occupied, and 
that his thoughts were hard to grasp was clearly evident for he 
appeared to be thoroughly and completely lost. He was. He was 
also exceedingly hungry. Growing conscious of the latter fact, 
he desisted from thinking and proceeded, in a dazed fashion, to 
open the cupboard and forage for food. A small but dainty 
meal lay on the shelf, all ready, waiting it appeared, to be eaten. 
It was his unconsumed lunch. Little David had put it aside 
against his possible return. 

John Henry smiled at the dishes. Little David and he were 
excellent companions. The thought of Sheila arose in his mind, 
and he grew alarmed. Little David might not take kindly to 
the idea of his marriage. The thought which had worried him 
for a long time—ever since the night at the Black Bull to be 
exact—returned with tremendous force, so that he felt unable to 
combat his own emotions thereby aroused. 

“If only Little David had not been a boy!” he sighed, and 
then he experienced something in the nature of an electric shock. 

He stood motionless before the cupboard for a long time, but 
his mind was far from motionless. John Henry, as has been 
stated before, was apt to accept what was placed before him 
without thought or suspicion, but when once his suspicions were 
aroused he saw everything with a remarkable clarity. 

He left the cupboard, suddenly, as if driven by necessity to 
prove the truth of his own thoughts. He passed into the passage 
and tried to open the door of the adjoining room. It was locked. 
He listened intently at the keyhole and heard the sound of a soft 


258 


LITTLE DAVID 


and regular breathing. The bed was occupied and the occupier 
was fast asleep. 

John Henry returned to his own room in a species of muted 
exultation. 

“That explains everything,” he muttered, and he seemed to glow 
all over with excitement. He meditated for a time. “I have been 
a fool,” he remarked a moment later, and then he added in all 
sincerity: “Thank God for it too.” He thought of the night 
spent at the Black Bull, and of many nights, since then, spent 
in his own abode. “I wonder—!” he exclaimed suddenly, and 
then he added: “That would be too good to be true!” 

At this point he remembered about Sheila. 

“My hat!” he breathed in a voice of agony, and sat down on 
his chair in a daze. 

After that John Henry commenced the occupation recommended 
by Veronica. He thought—hard . . . ! 


CHAPTER XVIII 


THE AWAKENING OF JOHN HENRY MILLMAN 

Veronica, in some respects, was like the sun. She rose early. 
On the morning after her midnight conversation with John Henry 
she rose earlier than usual. There was that which she desired to 
find out before breakfast, and Veronica’s time was very much 
occupied before that meal. She descended the stairs in a semi¬ 
sleeping condition and, as she passed John Henry’s door, the 
thought crossed her mind that it was a beautiful morning. She 
could see the light streaming out on the floor. She was mildly 
astonished that she had not discovered this on rising, but, since 
the sun rose on the other side of the house from her room, ftj 
was not so astonishing as it might have been. 

She reached the kitchen and commenced to work rapidly. The 
Milk arrived, whistling, at the foot of the area steps. Veronica 
had a few words to say to the Milk. She went out with that 
intent. The Milk, with a knowledge of shortcomings in his con¬ 
duct—he was young and flippant, but friendly disposed towards 
Veronica—attempted to be pleasant. 

He said: “When are we ever going to catch a sight of the 
sun? These dull mornings give me the creeps!” 

“Dull mornings!” said Veronica startled. “Dull—oh! He has 
forgotten to turn out the light. I must have been half asleep.” 

She departed suddenly, leaving the Milk in a state of con¬ 
siderable astonishment, and some doubt as to the morality of her 
conduct during the night. 

“Anyone else!” he remarked to himself as he climbed up to 
the street, “but not Veronica, poor soul,” and he sighed. 

259 


260 


LITTLE DAVID 


The Milk, it appeared r was not a bad fellow. He was not. 
He had, what many people have not, a heart. That is why he 
appears here, abruptly, and for no obvious reason. He is worthy 
of notice. 

Veronica listened at John Henry’s door, heard the rattling of 
dishes, and opening the door, looked in. John Henry was seated 
at the table and he appeared to be consuming the last fragment 
of a meal. He also appeared to be astonished at the sight of 
Veronica. 

He said: “Have you not gone to bed yet, Veronica?” 

Veronica said profoundly: “Oh! I see you are awake! Thank 
goodness for that.” Then she added: “Not been in bed! I have 
just got up. It is past seven o’clock in the morning!” 

John Henry rose briskly. He had not the appearance of one 
who had missed his rest, and he had the appearance of one who 
looks forward to an active and interesting day. 

“I want to have a long talk with you,” he said. “I want to 
have it now. You gave me an excellent piece of advice last night, 
Veronica. I want to thank you for it, and for not giving me 
any more. Bless your dear old face!” 

The dear old face in question, receiving an unaccustomed 
salutation, grew somewhat twisted and presented a very curious 
spectacle; but that is an immaterial point. 

“Better come down to the kitchen,” said Veronica gruffly. “We 
can talk there without being disturbed.” 

She preceded John Henry down the stairs. 

“I’m a woman inside in spite of my face,” she remarked, 
halfway down, “and a woman—if she is a woman—hopes 
life will give her something to look after. That is not for 
me, but there is no reason why I should wish others to want 
it.” 

John Henry made no direct reply to this, but once they were 
in the kitchen, he made a statement with great assurance. 

“If ever I have enough money to live in a house, you have 


AWAKENING OF JOHN HENRY 


261 


got to come and ‘do’ for me whether you want to or not. I 
shall just carry you away in a cab.” 

The prospect appeared to hold no terrors for Veronica. 

“You sit down there,” she said, placing a chair on one side of 
the fire and sitting down herself on the other, “and carry on. 
I’m listening.” 

She did this for some considerable time. The night, it ap¬ 
peared, had not been wasted by John Henry. It also appeared 
that he had been thinking—hard. His grasp of the facts of the 
case known to Veronica surprised her. The one point he appeared 
to have missed was Little David’s name and family, and the fact 
that he had been previously known to the Cornwalls. She 

said nothing, but she almost commenced to regard him in a 

new light as a person of common-sense and wisdom. She 

was saved from this appealing blunder by two things. The one 
was that, although he now appeared to have grasped the 

reason for Sheila’s behaviour, yet he had actually proposed 
to her in all sincerity. The other was a point over which 
Veronica snorted in exceeding disdain. It was occasioned by 
a simple remark of John Henry’s on the subject of Little 
David. 

“The discovery is a great joy to me,” he said, “because I could 
not understand myself. From the very first the little fellow 
moved me to a profound compassion—the same would have hap¬ 
pened to anyone, I was fortunate to be on the spot—but the matter 
went further than that. It puzzled and distressed me then, but 
now I am glad. Your remarks about my being able to bring 
Little David back puzzled me exceedingly at the time. Of course 
he must come back. The poor child has nothing to fear from 
me. He shall remain till he wishes to go. You must promise 
to say not one word of my awakening to the facts of the case. 
That would be cruel, for how could Little David face me then 
with happiness?” 

“How indeed!” exclaimed Veronica drily, and then, as 


262 


LITTLE DAVID 


already stated, she snorted in- disdain. “I can see,” she said 
fiercely, “that you are not wide-awake yet!” 

“What do you mean?” asked John Henry in surprise. 

“Nothing,” said Veronica shortly. “Pay no attention. I talk 
nonsense at times,” and although she was longing to add a few 
enlightening words, she refrained. 

Veronica was a decent woman, and one decent woman does 
not give another decent woman away. She leaves it to chance— 
when she is assured that the ultimate and desired result is in¬ 
evitable. 

“What are you going to do?” she asked after a moment. 

John Henry appeared to be quite decided on this. He com¬ 
menced to tell Veronica what he intended to do, and that, for 
some reason or other, seemed to take her breath away at first, 
and make her angry; but after she had recovered, she grew 
pleased, then she grew amused, and finally she laughed and 
seemed highly gratified. She sat on one side of the fire with 
her hands on her knees, her body bent forward, and her head 
inclined to catch every word; and she nodded her head as John 
Henry explained each point in detail. He sat on the other side 
and talked, and his face glowed with enthusiasm as he did so. 
He waved his hands, and grew excited, and was absolutely ab¬ 
sorbed in the subject in question. He might, in fact, have been 
a species of highly-animated spirit, attempting to hypnotise 
Veronica with his own enthusiasm. 

It was a very odd sight. Indeed, of all the odd sights in 
London that morning-—there must be many of them when you 
think of thousands of queer figures rising like wraiths from their 
beds—this one was, perhaps, the oddest. John Henry with his 
enthusiasm, and his glowing face—he was pleasant to behold at 
the moment. Veronica with her lop-sided figure, leaning forward, 
drinking in every word. One on either side of the fire in the 
dingy cavern of a kitchen. Innumerable breakfasts in process 
of congealing on the range and the fire dying down to a glimmer. 


AWAKENING OF JOHN HENRY 


263 


Then there were the bells! I had forgotten about them; the bells 
outside the kitchen door, I mean. 

They had started to ring when John Henry commenced to 
explain what he was going to do, and they went on ringing all 
the time. Not one bell, or two bells, or even three bells, but 
bunches of bells ringing fiercely at one and the same time. 
Veronica was bell-hardened. She may, or may not have heard. 
It was difficult to tell. John Henry was not bell-hardened, but 
he was too engrossed in his plans to think about them. Neither 
of them paid the slightest attention. The bells went on, and so 
did John Henry. What would eventually have happened, whether 
the indignant lodgers would have descended in a mass and 
finished off the pair of them in an outburst of wrath, is hard to 
say. What actually did happen was. this. John Henry, reaching 
a point in his discourse over which he appeared to have difficulty, 
paused, and in this pause they both heard a voice calling on 
Veronica, and the voice belonged to Little David. The voice, 
also, sounded alarmed. 

“Veronica! Veronica! Are you ill? I seem to have heard 
the bells ringing for ages!” 

“She is afraid I might be ill,” breathed Veronica proudly to 
John Henry. 

John Henry ignored the sex of the pronoun. 

“That is all right, Little David,” he called. “I have come 
down to give Veronica a hand. She was late last night, waiting 
up for me. You must dress and come down to help her yourself.” 

A startled gasp, half of astonishment, and half of relief, was 
the sole answer to this remark except for the fact that Little 
David, judging from the sounds above, immediately retired to 
his room and hurriedly closed the door. 

“That will bring Little David back all right,” muttered Veronica, 
and she seemed to be half displeased at the prospect. 

She commenced to do strange things with the various breakfasts, 
and in this John Henry helped her. If you ever have to live 


264 


LITTLE DAVID 


in a cheap London lodging-house, take my advice and avoid the 
kitchen when the meals are being prepared. You will be sorry 
if you disregard this well-meant warning. By this means, in a 
marvellously short space of time, the demands of the various bells 
were satisfied. 

“You were going to say something more,” said Veronica, when 
this result had been reached. “What was it?” 

John Henry immediately became reserved. 

“That was of no consequence,” he said with dignity. “It was 
only a foolish fancy on my part.” 

“Well!” said Veronica. “I want to know what it was!” 

“I thought,” said John Henry austerely, “that if the impossible 
came to pass, and it chanced that Little David cared for me in 
that fashion. I thought the programme might be added to, but 
not altered. It was an absurd idea. Little David is not mad. 
No woman would be so foolish on my account.” 

Veronica dropped a cooked rasher of bacon in her exasperation, 
and made no attempt to dust the same on replacement. 

“You love her?” she said suddenly. 

“I do,” said John Henry quietly—very quietly. 

“Then go and tell her so,” said Veronica. 

John Henry shook his head. 

“Never,” he said with energy. “That would be wickedly un¬ 
kind. Quite apart from Little David’s feelings, there might be 
some absurd idea of gratitude towards myself. I should not dream 
of doing such a thing.” 

Little David, it will be remembered, had made a somewhat 
similar statement to Veronica on the subject of John Henry him¬ 
self. 

“Between the pair of you,” said Veronica, with resignation, 
“I do not know what to say or do.” 

“You must promise to keep quiet and do nothing except what 
I have said,” exclaimed John Henry eagerly. 

Veronica pondered. 


AWAKENING OF JOHN HENRY 


265 


“What would you do supposing you found out that the ‘im¬ 
possible/ as you call it, had occurred?” 

John Henry clasped Veronica by the arm. 

“I should marry Little David at once,” he said with assurance. 

“I believe you would,” said Veronica in a species of wonder¬ 
ment. “I can see you doing it and asking her consent after it 
was all over. It would be just like you.” She prodded a hissing 
sausage viciously with her fork. “Very good,” she said, “I 
promise to keep my mouth shut to everybody, and I’ll do what you 
ask.” 

“Splendid!” said John Henry. “Now I must go out and tele¬ 
phone.” 

He went, without his hat or coat, and it had started to rain 
hard. 

“I wonder if he has any pennies in his pocket,” muttered 
Veronica, as she watched him pass along the street. 

He had, and he had not to wait long for his call. In the 
Red House young George was standing staring thoughtfully out 
of the window when the telephone bell rang. The rest of the Corn¬ 
wall family had not yet appeared for the day. He lifted the 
receiver, started at the sound of John Henry’s voice, and seemed in 
a half mind to leave the instrument. He did not, however, and 
very soon his aspect changed. He listened with attention, amuse¬ 
ment, and a growing enthusiasm; but he ended by being very 
contrite. 

“You are a good fellow,” he exclaimed, “and you do make me 
feel a beast. You are quite right, my want of a name has kept 
my mouth shut. It could not be otherwise. I shall do just what¬ 
ever you please.” 

What John Henry replied to this is unknown, but he emerged 
from the telephone box and scared a stout old lady out of her 
wits—this was in the underground at Paddington station—by 
exclaiming “Absolutely absurd!” in an indignant voice directly 
behind her back. Since she was from the provinces and was 


266 


LITTLE DAVID 


thinking nervously on the subject of her new hat, her alarm was 
not to be wondered at. The hat, by the way, was absurd, and so 
her female Town relatives told her forthwith. They would not 
have had the courage to do this, for she was rich, if it had not 
been for John Henry’s utterance. 

Several immediate results transpired from the conversation with 
George. That young man executed a species of war-dance in the 
hall. After breakfast he enticed Sheila into the garden, spoke to 
her with great solemnity, and she returned to the house looking 
both scared and distracted. No telegram went from the Red 
House to John Henry. A telegram arrived at the Red House 
from John Henry. It was for Sheila and it said: 

“Excuse hurried departure yesterday. Shall arrive this morning 
to talk to your father. Much love. John Henry.” 

The receipt of this telegram unsettled Sheila for the rest of 
the morning. The grave view of the matter taken by George and 
his advice, which seemed both convincing and true, unsettled her 
far more. The poor girl was quite alarmed, and George had great 
difficulty in preventing himself from immediately dispelling her 
distress. He was helped, however, by a knowledge of what it 
might mean to them both, so he remained silent. 

John Henry, having despatched his telegram, returned home, 
and on his own door-step he encountered the postman. There 
was a letter for him and the inscription on the back proclaimed 
that it came from Canning and Canning. A cloud arose on John 
Henry’s horizon. He read the letter before entering the house. 
He did not for one moment believe that Philip Canning was the 
caller of the previous day who had disturbed Little David; but 
he did want to face Little David with a mind free of all disagree¬ 
able matters. 

The reading of the letter puzzled him. It seemed to strike 
an entirely new note in regard to his dealings with that firm. 
There was almost something humble about it, yet the written words 
held only one meaning. John Henry was asked, pleasantly and 


AWAKENING OF JOHN HENRY 


267, 


courteously, to call at the office at the time which suited him best 
that day, or if he could not come that day to name a time and day 
■v^ien he could come. The reason given for this was one that 
sounded quite normal and feasible—his advice was asked on a 
pressing and important matter. The point which astounded John 
Henry was that his presence seemed to be asked for as a favour. 
Accepting this view the letter had the aspect of an appeal. It was 
not credible. John Henry decided that he was growing light¬ 
headed from the pressure of circumstances. He dismissed the 
matter from his mind. The discomfort of the coming interview 
did not depart so easily nevertheless. 

It is greatly to John Henry’s credit that Little David did not, 
for one second, suspect that he had made any discovery of moment. 
He did think that John Henry seemed especially quiet and 
attentive in his manner and bearing towards him, but this merely 
provoked a sigh and a slight return of the wistful sadness of the 
previous day. The sadness, however, was rapidly dispelled by a 
remark made by John Henry at the termination of breakfast. 

“I have a business appointment this afternoon,” he said, “and 
it is preying on my mind. It will be an ordeal, and it has driven 
an important piece of information from my head. I have kept the 
matter a secret, for I wished to tell you this morning and take you 
by surprise. You are coming with me to the dress rehearsal of 
my play to-night. You will have a box and no one will worry 
you there except, perhaps, myself. The Cornwalls will be in the 
next box but I wanted we two—you and I alone—to see the 
thing by ourselves. We made it, you know.” 

Little David was overjoyed at the prospect. He was so thor¬ 
oughly excited that he entirely forgot about Sheila, his own troubles, 
and the dangers of appearing in public places where he might 
meet with a recognition that was undesirable. He thought about 
these things later on, but John Henry had left by then. He, it 
appeared, had an exceedingly busy day before him, and would not 
return till just before supper-time. 


268 


LITTLE DAVID 


Veronica had a little to say on this subject. 

“You seem in a great hurry,” she remarked, as John Henry 
was dashing out at the door. 

“I am,” said John Henry. “I am going down to the Red House, 
and after that I have business to attend to, and then there is the 
theatre at night. I am in a hurry.” 

Veronica seemed perturbed. 

“No necessity to do everything in one day,” she said. “I should 
have thought you wanted to rest after being awake all night 1” 

John Henry danced on the door-step and waved his arms. 

“I must go out,” he said, “and arrange matters.” He stopped 
dancing and caught Veronica by the arm. “How can I stay in 
there, now that I am awake? I—I just could not keep my mouth 
shut or my arms still. I shall be able to do so—when I come 
back.” 

He departed, suddenly, like a bullet shot out of a gun, and 
went straight to his objective, brushing aside indignant station 
officials who sought to bar his progress, and boarded the nine- 
fifteen fast train with an utter disregard of the fact that he had 
no ticket. In this tempestuous fashion he arrived, shortly after 
eleven o’clock, on the door-step of the Red House and sought an 
immediate interview with George Cornwall and Muggie. They, 
simple souls, imagined that he had just been in receipt of a legacy 
or some similar piece of unexpected good fortune. His appear¬ 
ance was so exceedingly elevated and so excessively assured. 

They were rapidly disillusioned, however, and they were also 
struck dumb with astonishment. In fact they were so astonished 
that they sat with open mouths and glared at John Henry as if 
he were something new that they had never seen, thought of, or 
even imagined. John Henry achieved this result by his first few 
words, and the rest of his discourse was, more or less, lost on 
them in consequence. They both emerged from that interview in 
a daze. 

“I am in love,” said John Henry, speaking with assurance, 


AWAKENING OF JOHN HENRY 


269 


“and I have been in love for weeks without knowing anything 
about it. I do now by a fortunate chance—a most fortunate chance. 
Yesterday, in the motor shed, I asked Sheila to marry me. She did 
not say no. I can hardly believe,” continued John Henry with 
absolute truth, “that any woman would care for me in that fashion. 
Such a thought seems too good to be true. I want a marriage 
arranged as soon as possible before—before she changes her 
mind, for example.” 

At this point John Henry paused to take breath, and George 
Cornwall and Muggie ceased to listen coherently and became lost. 

John Henry went on. He went on talking what seemed to the 
two dazed listeners to be little short of lunacy. He covered a 
great deal of ground in a very short time, and the one point he 
failed to broach was—money. This, as a matter of fact, had 
not occurred to him. It would not. The disconcerting part of the 
entire situation lay in his manner of speaking. He was so ob¬ 
viously in earnest, so absolutely assured, and so happily confident 
that his intentions were kindly, correct, and the best for Sheila. 
They were, only George Cornwall and Muggie did not grasp the 
true object of these intentions. What they did grasp was that 
John Henry wished to marry Sheila without delay, and this dis¬ 
turbed them because they were not at all certain of what that 
young woman’s views might be. It was quite impossible to hint 
this to the enthusiastic talker nevertheless. That task was be¬ 
yond any inhabitant of the Red House. 

In the middle of a description of a glowing future the sound 
of the local omnibus, groaning its way to the station to meet the 
fast up train, came to John Henry’s ears. He paused on a word, 
and leapt to his feet. 

“I must catch that bus,” he said, and fled from the room. 

As George Cornwall remarked to Muggie, when they were 
capable of talking in a natural fashion, he would look on 
that wretched bus with thankfulness for the rest of his life. 
If it had not been for the bus, he opined, Sheila might have been 


270 


LITTLE DAVID 


spirited away, married, and permanently settled for life, before 
they had time to collect their scattered thoughts. As it was they 
had time, but when they sent for Sheila, then things once more 
became chaotic. She entered the room like a criminal about to 
be faced with a crime . . . ! It was very amusing, but 

even young George failed to see the humour at the moment. 

“I guessed as much/’ said George Cornwall dismally, after 
listening to Sheila’s explanation. “I was certain that it was the 
result of some mad plan of yours. I believe, my dear, that your 
intentions were good, but how you could think that Millman 
would immediately fall into the arms of Mabel Canning because 
you were making love to him, beats me altogether.” 

Sheila, who had been drooping, recovered a trifle. 

“He is a man and Mabel is a woman. They are both in love 
with each other. They only want some one to waken them up a 
little. I would like to shake Mabel Canning. What right has 
little David to go on existing so long? I wanted to waken John 
Henry to the fact that he is in love, but I did not expect him to 
imagine that it was with me!” 

“Well, he does,” said George Cornwall, “and he thinks that you 
are in love with him; and it is you who will have to disillusion 
him, for I cannot after listening to what he had to say.” 

Sheila gasped and became infinitely distressed. 

“I—I cannot,” she said. “He will think me such a beast. 
You must do it for me, George. It is all your fault for suggesting 
the arrival of Little David at this house.” 

George shook his head in a grave and determined fashion. 

“No,” he said. “That I cannot do. Millman must find out 
for himself, if you do not explain. The task is beyond me after 
what I have said to him.” 

“What will he think of me?” groaned Sheila. 

“Millman said that Little David knew nothing about it,” 
remarked Muggie, “but no doubt your previous behaviour has 
made the young man think quite a lot.” 


AWAKENING OF JOHN HENRY 


271 


A ray of hope dawned on Sheila’s face. 

“In that case,” she said, “we can hope for the best. My plan 
may turn out well after all. Little David or no Little David, 
Mabel Canning is a woman, and if this piece of information 
does not make the young man vanish, nothing on earth will. I 
know what I shall do. At the theatre to-night-” 

She paused, or rather she did not pause but the Cornwall family, 
rising in wrath, drowned the sound of her voice with urgent 
entreaties to leave the matter alone and attempt no further com¬ 
plications. She had done quite enough harm as it was, and, 
perhaps, she had. George Cornwall, after the general outburst 
had subsided, added a remark on his own, and there seemed to 
be a fair amount of sense in it. So much sense, in fact, that Sheila 
could find nothing to say in reply. 

“The question to worry about is not what you are going to do, 
but what Millman himself will do,” he said. “In his present 
state I should not be surprised at his doing anything.” 

At the moment John Henry was harmlessly engaged in repair¬ 
ing his general appearance in a friendly door-way, previous to 
entering the dread portals of Mead House and coming before the 
all-seeing eye of the majestic trio who were Canning and Canning 
of publishing fame. The strength of his good intentions towards 
Sheila had carried him half way down Charing Cross Road before 
he recalled the general untidiness of his dress occasioned by his 
experiences overnight, his rapid transit to and from Tipping 
Horley, and a lunch consumed at the refreshment bar at Padding¬ 
ton station. His hands were not clean. He was uneasy on the 
subject of his collar. He had an acute memory of some foreign 
matter on the top of the barrel in the lorry, and he seemed to 
exude a decided flavour of paraffin. 

John Henry was appalled. He passed the door of Mead House 
three times before he could summon sufficient courage to enter. 
He had wild thoughts of rushing home in a cab, changing his 
clothes, and returning; but he knew that by then it would be too 



272 


LITTLE DAVID 


late. The office would be shut for the night. He paused beside 
a seated musician with one leg who churned a doleful tune out of 
a musical box. 

“You are a coward,” said John Henry scornfully, addressing 
himself. “You want to run away!” 

The seated one took exception to the remark, to the intense 
gratification of a couple of small boys, and John Henry disap¬ 
peared into the open doorway. If it had not been for this, he 
might be waiting there still. 

“Never mind if you do smell of paraffin,” said John Henry, 
comforting himself outside the office door. “You are awake now, 
and that is a blessing!” 

His awakening was destined to become rapidly more complete. 

The pert young thing disappeared from the outer office before 
he had time to shut the door. This startled him, for he had the 
impression that his appearance had scared her into flight. She 
returned in a few seconds, and requesting him to follow, passed 
down a long corridor. John Henry went as one might follow 
the headsman to the block. She opened a door and stood on 
one side for him to enter. He crossed the threshold and paused 
in astonishment. This was not the room of harrowing memories. 
It was small, and bright, and cheerful. It was a human apart¬ 
ment. There were three human beings in it. Sinclair Dodds and 
Ralph Seymour stood in front of the fire. Philip Canning stood 
by the window. All three of them appeared to be uncomfortable, 
unhappy, and ill at ease. John Henry had every right to be 
astonished. 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Millman,” said Philip Canning in a 
low voice. “Will you please be seated!” 

Sinclair Dodds and Ralph Seymour uttered inaudible greetings. 
John Henry sat down in a species of trance. The atmosphere of 
the room became tense and strained. Ralph Seymour turned 
round to poke the fire but gave up the attempt in discomfiture. 
Sinclair Dodds was already hard at the task. Philip Canning 


AWAKENING OF JOHN HENRY 


273 


cleared his throat, coughed, and commenced to play with the 
buttons of his coat. 

“I—I have asked you to call because—” he commenced, and 
broke off before the impossibility of proceeding. He made a 
curious, helpless gesture with his hands and glanced unhappily at 
his two partners. 

Each of these two gentlemen appeared to expect the other to 
speak, but it was not necessary for either of them to utter a word. 
John Henry had leapt to his feet and stood gazing at Philip 
Canning with very mixed feelings, to judge by his face, across 
which astonishment, enlightenment, indignation, and other emo¬ 
tions appeared to pass. The curious, helpless motion of Philip 
Canning’s hands was the cause of this; that and his mouth, face, 
and general appearance. John Henry had discovered Little 
David’s identity. He had also discovered that Little David’s 
father was in pain, and the discovery moved him to sudden action. 
He crossed the room and touched the tall, thin man, a man of 
immense dignity no longer, on the sleeve. 

“I have no right to ask,” he said, “but you seem to me to be in 
trouble. If I can help you, I shall be happy l” 

Philip Canning responded to the touch. His hands closed on 
John Henry’s arm. His voice came with the ring of sincerity 
that rises from pain. 

“It is my child,” he said. “The only thing I have in the world, 
and—she is lost!” 

As Ralph Seymour remarked subsequently to Sinclair Dodds, 
this statement, even at that advanced stage, astounded him coming 
from Philip Canning. Sinclair Dodd’s retort was simple. He 
said: “You are not a father. I am and so is he. You do not 
understand.” 

Philip Canning was alive. 

“Tell me about it,” said John Henry, and he seated himself 
with his back to the window. 

Philip Canning told him. He narrated his version of Little 


274 


LITTLE DAVID 


David’s story and he made no attempt to spare himself, but he 
clung to the theory of his daughter’s guilt. John Henry grew 
very fierce and indignant at that part in the story, but his indig¬ 
nation lessened when he thought that this proud man had reached 
the point of longing for his daughter as he imagined her to be. 
There was, according to John Henry, something very fine about 
this which more than made up for the injustice of the accusation. 
He perceived, also, that Philip Canning had not discovered the 
possession of a daughter till he had lost her, and as he thought 
this, Philip Canning himself said so. 

“All the blame in the matter rests with me,” he said, and it was 
not easy for him to say it. “She has been left too much alone. 
I had a child . . . it is so easy to arrive at a point of view 

which remains . . . she remained—there. After I had 
lost her and she did not return then I found out that she was 
mine, my own flesh, more to me than anything else on earth. I 
have had time to think.” He was silent for a moment. “I 
want to take her into my arms, to tell her that what she has done 
is forgiven and forgotten, to say that we two must live for each 
other, to face the world with my child no matter what she is or 
has done.” 

John Henry made an unexpected remark. 

“I am afraid that would be a fatal mistake,” he said with 
assurance. 

Philip Canning started as if he had been stung. Ralph Seymour 
glanced indignantly at Sinclair Dodds. He had first thought of 
consulting John Henry Millman, even if the girl’s foster-mother 
had subsequently given the same advice. This was his blame 
Sinclair Dodds became unhappy. They were all uneasily silent, 
and apprehensively attentive of John Henry, who appeared to be 
thinking profoundly. He was. He had reason in so doing. 
There was quite a lot for him to think about. 

“A most fatal mistake,” repeated John Henry suddenly 
“because since you know nothing of your daughter, how do you 


AWAKENING OF JOHN HENRY 


275 


know that she is guilty? She is an unknown quantity to you. 
You have no right to attribute evil motives where they may not 
exist!” 

Philip Canning frowned and the line of his mouth grew 
exceedingly straight. 

“I am sorry to have troubled you,” he said, after a moment of 
silence. “If my daughter had not been guilty she would not have 
gone away. The matter is self-evident.” 

John Henry leapt to his feet and danced. He also waved his 
arms, and he seemed angry, exceedingly angry and indignant. 

“You have seen her,” he said. “You are her father, yet you 
can sit there and utter statements that make my flesh creep!” His 
hand shot out suddenly, and a finger pointed accusingly at Philip 
Canning’s mouth. “What have you given to your child along 
with your name? Have you given her a mouth like that? If 
so and she were innocent, she would walk the streets and live on 
crusts rather than come back to you who believe her guilty.” His 
voice altered and the indignation went from his face. “I know,” 
he said gently, “that you have suffered, that you are suffering 
still, but your accusations are so blindly assured. She must be 
innocent. I know she must be innocent. That is the reason why 
you have failed to find her. You have searched for a time, but 
how long has she been searching in vain for you! All her life, 
I should imagine, poor child, and now she has gone—for good. It 
is easy to understand.” 

There was an interval of uncomfortable silence during which 
John Henry appeared to meditate on some sad and perplexing 
problem, and the two junior partners glanced apprehensively at 
Philip Canning in a guilty and apologetic fashion. That gentle¬ 
man—to speak in terms of absolute truth—appeared to be waging 
a battle between his mouth and some other, hidden, and possibly 
useless organ. 

“She will never come back if you start forgiving her for what 
she has not done,” said John Henry suddenly. “I understand and 


276 


LITTLE DAVID 


appreciate what you have gone through to reach that decision, but 
she might not. It would only drive deeper the hurt that you, her 
father, thought such things of her. She must have lived for 
years with an image of hope that was you in her heart. You 
have shattered that image. Now you will come before her judg¬ 
ment as a stranger. She has had no father. She has been fighting 
against a knowledge of this, and now it has conquered.” 

Ralph Seymour, reduced to a recurrence of his accustomed 
state of mental subservience in the presence of his senior partner, 
uttered a pertinent remark. 

“Mr. Dodds made the suggestion to tell you the tale ... !” 

He glanced accusingly at Sinclair Dodds. “You speak as if the 
girl were outside the door waiting to walk in. You seem to 
forget that she is lost and must first of all be found!” 

Sinclair Dodds, having reached a point of confusion where 
reason did not influence him, gave birth to a fresh complication of 
his original idea. 

“Perhaps Mr. Millman knows where she is,” he said hopefully, 
and he did not speak in sarcasm but in a simple, instinctive, and 
wholly unreasoning fashion. 

John Henry walked towards the door. 

“No,” he said with decision. “I do not know where Mr. 
Canning’s daughter is, but I am going to try and find out. I am 
going to try to-night, and I hope”—he paused and his face became 
of a sudden quite exceptionally attractive to look at. “I hope that 
I shall succeed.” 

Philip Canning arose in a state of emotion where annoyance, 
eagerness, and astonishment, were fairly equally blended. 

“Mr. Millman!” he commenced in annoyance. “Have you 
heard of a girl who might be my child?” he continued in eagerness. 
“Whatever is it?” he ended in astonishment. 

An expression of horror had swept over John Henry’s face, 
and his right hand had gone up in a gesture commanding silence 
and attention. 


AWAKENING OF JOHN HENRY 


277 


John Henry listened. Philip Canning listened. They all 
listened, but there was nothing to be heard except the sound of the 
clock in the outer office striking the hour. Since this was a habit 
of the clock in question, the three members of the firm of Canning 
and Canning thought nothing of it. John Henry, apparently 
did. 

“Six I” he gasped and fled, and on this, as on a previous occa¬ 
sion, he left his hat behind him; but the leaving of it was different. 

The hat was devoid of pawn-tickets. It did not arrive home 
before him—they did not find it in the office till next morning. 
It was not the only hat he possessed. On the previous occasion, 
too, nothing but a pleased satisfaction had remained in the minds 
of the Three Mighty Beings of Mead House. On this one the 
satisfaction was absent. The Three Mighty Beings were absent 
also, and in place of these pleasing things there remained nothing 
but three startled and somewhat helpless men who did not know 
quite what to think. Perhaps they were justified in this. John 
Henry Millman was a disconcerting creature to deal with. He 
did things in his own fashion—supposing that you credit him 
with sufficient sense to have a fashion of his own. 

“We must have a cab. It would never do to be late. Little David 
would be utterly disappointed,” muttered the last-named gentle¬ 
man, as he swarmed up to the top of a passing bus. 

“In truth an excellent thing,” he remarked aloud, as the thought 
struck him that there would be no time to lose—time that might 
have proved irksome, faced by Little David, with the tumult of 
his own thoughts rising and raging in his head. 

“No doubt,” said a voice beside him, “but you cannot do it 
on me. I saw you get on. Where do you want to go?” 

John Henry answered immediately without turning round. 

“The theatre,” he said. “The Bigpit Theatre, to a dress 
rehearsal of my play!” 

“My hat!” said the voice, “and it is poor, hard-worked creatures 
like myself that have to put up with them!” 


278 


LITTLE DAVID 


John Henry swung round and faced the speaker, an incensed 
bus-conductor, in great astonishment. 

“Oh!” he remarked profoundly. “Yes, of course! You want 
my fare. I had forgotten.” 

The bus-conductor departed muttering. John Henry’s mind 
reverted to the problems which faced him. He thought, and he 
grew very sad yet also very happy as he thought, or so it seemed 
judging by his expression. As it happened there was no one on the 
top of the bus to see this, so it did not matter. 


CHAPTER XIX 


IN WHICH LITTLE DAVID FORGETS HIMSELF 

There is no necessity to say anything about John Henry’s play, 
yet it requires a chapter to itself. This may sound strange, 
but it is not. As you read on you will understand. John Henry 
was very glad he had written that play. He was more than glad, 
he was filled with a sense of wondering exaltation that he, of all 
people on the earth, should have been chosen for such a marvellous 
joy and happiness. The play was a first effort. There were, no 
doubt, points about it calling for improvement. There were, 
perhaps, points which could not be improved. It is needless to 
say anything about either. The play remained in the hands of the 
wise ones who are able to criticise such matters. It was in good, 
generous, and kindly hands without doubt. 

John Henry and Little David arrived at the theatre in a cab. 
John Henry had a box, a box next the stage. They reached that 
point of vantage as the curtain rose on the first act. 

A dress rehearsal is a dress rehearsal, that and nothing else, 
but to an author who has lived through the lives of his characters, 
wept over their sorrows, and thrilled to their joys, it is perhaps, 
something more. He sees the creatures of his fancy in the appro¬ 
priate dress, listens to their voices speaking the thoughts that have 
had birth in his own mind and heart, and does all this in the 
presence of a crowd of his fellow-creatures. It is all very interest¬ 
ing, somewhat trying, and exceedingly disconcerting. 

John Henry would not have been able to face the ordeal if it 
had not been for Little David. He saved the situation in more 
ways than one. 


279 


280 


LITTLE DAVID 


When you take into consideration the fact that, at a point in 
the production of the piece, John Henry had suddenly gone mad, 
demanded information as to the name of the author, expressed a 
fitting astonishment on being told that he himself was to blame, 
and subsequently carried on to such an extent that the powers of 
management had retired into the background to prophesy total 
ruin to everything and everybody concerned; when you take this 
into consideration, and add the additional fact that this state of 
affairs had continued and culminated in an outburst of managerial 
anguish on the day previous to the dress rehearsal, then you may 
grasp what an extraordinary accomplishment it was that John 
Henry was in the theatre at all. 

Left to himself he would have fled from Town, and might 
never have been heard of again. It is quite likely. As it was he 
sat boldly in the corner of the box next the stage, in full view of 
the audience, and he gave no manifestation of uneasiness. He 
appeared, however, to be glowing all over with pleasure and happi¬ 
ness, and he continued to glow in an increasing degree till he 
might almost be said to exude a positive light of joy. It was 
very odd, extremely human, and quite understandable. John 
Henry had completely forgotten about his play. At least he had 
not forgotten about it, but it remained at the back of his mind, a 
small thing of no importance. He scarcely glanced at the stage, 
and the voices of the players passed unheeded. Little David 
occupied all his thoughts, all his attention. In the face of his 
finished work in progress of production John Henry, without 
pausing even to give the matter a moment of thought, realized 
of what small importance it was compared to the realities of life. 
That is the reason why this play of John Henry’s requires a chap¬ 
ter to itself. 

Little David sat in the corner of the box with an uninterrupted 
view of the stage, entirely hidden except for an odd hand or arm 
from the sight of the audience; and when the curtain rose on the 
first act, Little David said “Oh!” and promptly forgot about a 


LITTLE DAVID FORGETS HIMSELF 


281 


number of things including, at times, even John Henry himself. 
Incidentally he entirely forgot about the young gentleman known 
to John Henry as Little David. He seemed to have mislaid him 
in some strange fashion. He had, you will remember, materially 
helped in the work of writing the piece, and it is also possible that 
he might have a fairly strong interest in anything emanating from 
John Henry. It is hard to say, but the fact remains that he sat, 
and watched, and grew more and more excited as the play pro¬ 
gressed. It was very pathetic, like a young mother watching the 
antics of her first child, and appealing to a third party for 
sympathy and approval. 

He appealed to John Henry at every point of the play which 
pleased or touched him. There were many points, and it is quite 
unnecessary to state that John Henry responded to each and 
every appeal. He did not forget, however, that Little David was 
Little David, although this was not so easy to bear in mind as 
you might think. It was all very odd, and, no doubt, exceedingly 
foolish. Sheila Cornwall simplified the matter for John Henry. 
I do not believe that he would have been able to remember that 
Little David must continue to be Little David if it had not been 
for Sheila. 

She sat in the next box in full view of John Henry who faced 
her, and, although she watched the play with interest and ap¬ 
proval, she watched John Henry with a scared apprehension. 
Since she was unable to see Little David, this is not to be won¬ 
dered at. George Cornwall, who was also in the box, caught occa¬ 
sional glimpses of John Henry and he also was disturbed and 
unsettled. Young George, who sat in the background, saw nothing 
but the stage and gave himself up in a whole-hearted fashion to 
an enjoyment of the proceedings thereon enacted. 

Sheila, you will remember, was faced with the task of disillu¬ 
sioning John Henry on the subject of her feelings towards him. 
During the progress of the play that task, already difficult, assumed 
the aspect of an utter impossibility. John Henry was so obviously 


282 


LITTLE DAVID 


happy. He was so absolutely oblivious of the play. He was so 
tenderly affectionate in the glances he cast at her, and his actions 
were so sudden and disconcerting. Little David, in the most 
quiet and natural fashion, was at the bottom of all this. It was 
very amusing. 

Moments of emotion found him clinging to John Henry’s 
sleeve, and what could John Henry do but direct his gaze at 
Sheila? If he looked at Little David—well, that young gentle¬ 
man was only represented by his clothes. Odd little incidents 
found him smiling in a tender and reminiscent fashion and 
murmuring: “It is just what you would do!” Points of emotion 
found him sitting tense, and strained, and tragic; and the inter¬ 
vals—well, during the intervals Little David relapsed right back 
into his corner and sat in a kind of trance; but he retained a 
hold on John Henry’s coat as if he were afraid he might run away. 
Mabel Canning, you will remember, had spent years offering 
all the deep places in her affectionate heart to one who had 
blindly ignored the offering. There is small wonder that 
John Henry found it necessary to pay a considerable amount 
of attention to Sheila Cornwall. He did. In fact he paid 
so much that the poor girl felt impelled to return the same in 
kind. 

This happened during the interval before the curtain went up 
for the final act, and Sheila, spurred on by her own unsettled 
thoughts, achieved a result which startled George Cornwall, as¬ 
tonished young George, and affronted the young person who 
inhabited the clothes of Little David so much that Little David 
nearly returned. He would have done so, doubtless, if the curtain 
had not risen and cut the matter short. 

Sheila had been, for a long time, meditating the saying of a 
few words to John Henry. She grasped her last opportunity and 
wishing, by the medium of her generous heart, to respond a 
little to John Henry’s advances, and having at the same time the 
strongest distaste to so doing, she leant over the edge of the box 


LITTLE DAVID FORGETS HIMSELF 


283 


in an attitude that was not strictly in accordance with a proper 
and fitting maiden modesty. 

“Wonderful I” she said to John Henry in an uneven voice. “We 
are all so proud of you. I am, but perhaps I have added reason 
to be so.” 

As George Cornwall said afterwards, he did not know which 
to be the most sorry for, Sheila or John Henry. The speech cost 
Sheila quite a considerable effort. 

Little David was affronted. The quiver in Sheila’s voice, what 
could be seen of her attitude, and the latter part of her speech 
were quite sufficient to recall him from his dreaming thoughts. 
It was quite impossible to say anything. A man can not. He 
can only think and sometimes look. Little David did both. 

John Henry, perceiving all this, leant past Little David and 
clasped Sheila’s hands in his own. He did this because it was 
necessary for him to clasp the hands of some one, and the hands he 
desired to clasp he could not. That was impossible for several 
reasons. Little David objected to being touched for one! 

The curtain rose and the play went on. Little David again 
became enthralled and oblivious of most things. The incident; 
however, remained at the back of his mind; and this, without 
doubt, helped to heighten the climax at the end of the piece. 
After the curtain had gone down for the last time and the audience 
was enthusiastically applauding the players, Little David forgot 
that he had ever existed. He forgot about himself absolutely 
and entirely. After applauding with the rest, he turned away 
from the stage and applauded John Henry. His face was quite 
flushed, and excited, and softened, at the moment; and he looked, 
well, he looked exceedingly attractive. 

I do not know just how it happened, but it could not have hap¬ 
pened at a worse time. John Henry, unable to remain still, had 
risen to his feet. Little David had risen also—still clapping. 
They faced each other and I believe they forgot about the play, 
the players, everything and everybody but themselves. Little 


284 


LITTLE DAVID 


David forgot about Little David, and John Henry forgot that 
Little David disliked to be touched. At the most unfortunate 
moment the principal lady on the stage, glancing up at the box, 
saw John Henry and pointed. The attention of the audience 
was distracted. The stage people commenced to applaud. The 
audience continued to do so. They all gazed up, and they all 
laughed. 

It was the laugh that brought Little David back of a sudden. 
That and Sheila’s indignant face peering round into the box. 

“Well, I never did!” said that young woman, but her voice was 
more relieved than indignant. 

Little David returned, as you might say, with a click. 

“What is the matter?” he demanded fiercely. “Why should 
one man not embrace another?” 

Why not indeed! 

As John Henry remarked afterwards, the British reserve in these 
matters was absurd—perfectly absurd. There was no reason why 
affections should not be outwardly shown even between two such 
uninteresting things as male objects usually are. At the moment, 
however, he paid no attention to anything but Little David. John 
Henry was exceedingly happy. 

The audience continued to cheer. John Henry would not have 
known what to do if he had been alone. He would have been 
lost and felt inclined to sink into the floor in a sudden and per¬ 
manent fashion. Little David made this quite unnecessary. John 
Henry knew exactly what to do, and he did it. 

He drew Little David forward, raised his hand in a gesture 
of negation, pointed to Little David, and commenced to clap 
himself. The audience, mystified but good-natured, followed suit. 
Little David, brought thus suddenly into the public eye, became 
exceedingly reserved and bashful. He stood still, for he did not 
know quite what to do, and his hands, fluttering in a helpless 
fashion, seemed to be searching for something to grasp. John 
Henry, perceiving this, seized them without warning and drew 


LITTLE DAVID FORGETS HIMSELF 


285 


him to the shelter of the back of the box. At that moment there 
was a knock, the door of the box opened, and Philip Canning 
looked in. He seemed disturbed, and distracted, and exceedingly 
unsettled; and he spoke at once as if the words had been quivering 
on his lips for hours. They had. 

“Mr. Millman!” he said. “You must forgive this intrusion. I 
have waited out the entire performance in an agony of unrest, but 
I can wait no longer. Tell me I Do you, in truth, know anything 
of where my child may be?” 

You may think that this, taking the facts of the situation into 
consideration, was a remarkable utterance; but it was not. Philip 
Canning had sat out the performance, at the edge of the stalls, 
beneath John Henry’s box. He had seen a fragment of John 
Henry, an occasional hand and arm of Little David, but nothing 
else. The moment the play was over he went in search of the 
box in question, and the moment he knocked on the door, John 
Henry, with a sudden protective motion, drew Little David into 
his arms and hid him under his coat. He did this because, not 
knowing who the intruder might be, he had no wish to let that 
person see Little David’s face. The latter young gentleman 
shook, and quivered, and quivered again at the sound of Philip 
Canning’s voice, but he remained where he had been placed. 
Possibly he had no rooted objection to being there. 

Philip Canning, perceiving with some slight astonishment the 
lower portion of Little David’s anatomy, was about to make a 
further apology for his intrusion, but John Henry cut him short. 

“It is of no account,” said John Henry. “My little brother is 
affected by the success of my play. A boy does not like to show 
emotion in public. Pay no attention to him. He is all right 
where he is.” 

John Henry said this in a grave and convincing fashion as if 
it were quite an ordinary thing to find a man standing in the box 
of a theatre with his brother half hidden under the shelter of his 
coat. A far less distracted person than Philip Canning would have 


286 


LITTLE DAVID 


been lured into a disregard of the oddness of the situation by his 
air of assurance. 

“I have not forgotten what you told me this afternoon,” contin¬ 
ued John Henry, and he seemed to hold the hidden quantity under 
his coat in an even closer grasp, “but I have not had an opportun¬ 
ity to look for your daughter as yet. Believe me,” said John 
Henry with great earnestness, “that it will be the first charge on 
my time and energy. I shall leave no stone unturned that might 
lead her back to you. I hope that I know where she is, and, if 
I am correct in my views, then she is in a safe place”—Little 
David shook tremendously at this point—“where she must remain 
for a space. Leave the matter to me, Mr. Canning, if you can 
trust me so far. It would be cruel to tell you that I am assured 
in my views when they are only suppositions. When I have any 
certain information to give, then I shall send for you without 
delay.” 

There was real emotion visible on Philip Canning’s face, and 
real emotion had quivered in his voice. John Henry was acutely 
conscious of this, but he did not forget about Little David, also— 
oddly enough—he knew what he intended to do, and was quite 
assured of the correctness of his judgment. 

“You must allow me to try and unravel this sad affair in my 
own fashion,” he said. “I have no ulterior desire in so doing. 
I am assured that I shall succeed.” 

Philip Canning took a first and a very great step towards a 
reconciliation with his daughter, and he was quite unaware of the 
fact. 

“I shall do just as you please,” he said humbly. “I shall 
leave everything to you and wait confident that you will do your 
best. I am at the Paddington Hotel, and will come at once if 
you send for me,” and having said this he turned on his heel and 
left the box. 

“That poor man has lost his daughter,” said John Henry in a 
very soft voice. “I want you to help me to find her, Little David. 


LITTLE DAVID FORGETS HIMSELF 


287 


He has suffered a lot—a great deal more than he has ever felt or 
suffered in all the rest of his life. She used to live with him and 
he was too busy with other things to see that she was there. Now 
she has gone and he has had time to think that of all his posses¬ 
sions she is the only one he desires, the only one worth possessing. 
You must try with me to find this girl and make him happy. 
Will you?” 

“I—I don’t know,” said Little David in a whisper, and he 
shook exceedingly and seemed to be undergoing a process that 
shrivelled him up to a fraction of his normal size. 

At this moment there came a fresh interruption. The door of 
the box opened for the second time and a bearded, kindly face 
looked in. It was a strange face to John Henry, and he was 
naturally indignant, but a quality of genuine kindliness about it 
restrained him from demanding the reason of the intrusion. The 
face—nothing else but a hand was visible during the entire 
interview—cast a comprehensive glance at John Henry, at the 
hidden bulk which represented the top of Little David, at the 
lower extremities of that young gentleman which were visible, and 
then it spoke. 

“I come from a village near Tipping Horley,” said the face, 
“and I knew that the man who sent a ticket to that poor sick boy 
for a performance in which he was interested but could not pos¬ 
sibly attend, would not object to my looking in for a moment. I 
have heard all about you from him. He has odd ideas, poor lad, 
but if some of them are true, then I might be able to help you. 
This is my card.” 

A hand came into the box directly below the face and tendered 
a card, which John Henry accepted mechanically, and then the 
face vanished and the door closed. John Henry glanced at the 
printed name and he gasped. 

“Who was that?” asked Little David in alarm. 

John Henry did not have an opportunity of replying. 

There was a thunderous summons at the door of the box. Then 


288 


LITTLE DAVID 


the voice of young George came in stentorian tones, demanding if 
they were going to keep Sheila and George Cornwall waiting all 
night at the entrance to the theatre. George went on to state that 
he was hungry and in need of his supper, and he reminded John 
Henry that he and Little David were motoring home with them to 
the Red House. Having said this George departed with the final 
piece of information that the car would be starting in a few 
moments whether they came or stayed away. 

“We must go down, Little David,” said John Henry. 

“I—I cannot!” said Little David, and his hands closed sud¬ 
denly on John Henry’s waistcoat. “How can I face them like 
this—now?” 

“They are all friends,” said John Henry, “and they have all 
seen you before. There is no reason why you should be frightened 
of facing them now.” 

Little David shrunk to a size that seemed microscopic, and his 
voice was so exceedingly small that it could scarcely be heard. 

“I am not afraid of facing them,” he said, “but how can I 
face-” 

“Yes!” said John Henry encouragingly, as the voice shook and 
ceased. 

“You!” said Little David in the smallest of whispers. 

“Oh, that!” said John Henry, and he acted with sudden 
despatch. “There is nothing to be alarmed at about me! An 
absurd idea!” 

Little David’s long blue rainproof coat hung on a hook at the 
side of the door. As John Henry spoke, he seized this with one 
hand, swung Little David out of his place of concealment with the 
other, stood behind the boy, and held the coat up for him to slip 
into. Little David slipped into it. The coat was ample and 
came well below the knees. 

“In that,” said John Henry argumentatively, “you might face 
the Archbishop of Canterbury, or the Lord Mayor’s Coachman, 
not to speak of myself and the Cornwalls.” 


LITTLE DAVID FORGETS HIMSELF 


289 


At this point most of the lights in the theatre went out. 

“Come along,” said John Henry, and he held out his hand. 

Little David’s fingers, all ten of them, closed on that hand. It 
would, without doubt, be difficult to descend in the darkened 
theatre. 

“There is no reason why Little David should be afraid to face 
me,” said John Henry, as they passed cautiously down a long, 
downward inclining passage. “I might be afraid to face him but I 
am not, for he is going to help me to find Philip Canning’s 
daughter.” 

Little David made a curious statement. 

He said: “Little David never had and never will have a father.” 

“All the more reason why he should help me to find this miss¬ 
ing child for Philip Canning,” said John Henry. “Since Little 
David knows what it is not to have a father, he can imagine 
what it must feel like to have had a child and lost her.” 

Little David uttered a gasping sound, and then made a second, 
and even more curious statement. 

He said in a quivering voice: “How can I help you to look 
for the daughter of a man who has treated you abominably?” 

John Henry paused in amazement. 

“Treated me abominably!” he said. “Treated me—why even 
if he had, has he not thrown you into my path! I have to thank 
him for everything! Anyway, he has not treated me abominably.” 

In the dark Little David’s fingers closed more tightly on John 
Henry’s hand. 

“That agreement,” he commenced, and then his voice trailed 
into silence. Possibly he found it difficult, even in the dark, to 
comment on the rest of John Henry’s remark. 

“Bother the agreement,” said John Henry. “The man is in 
trouble, so that finishes the matter. You must help me, Little 
David, for his sake, for your own, and for mine. I want to be 
happy, and how can I be that unless you are all happy also!” 

“He accused me of the most horrible things,” said Little David, 


290 


LITTLE DAVID 


“and all I was trying to do was to get him to love me—a little. I 
could not face him again. I could not tell him about Little David 
for he would not understand. I would do anything you asked, but 
Mabel Canning can never go back to her father.” 

“Are you quite sure of that?” asked John Henry. 

“Quite,” said Little David with determination. 

“Then you must stay with the Cornwalls for a time,” said John 
Henry with decision. “You will understand why it is necessary 
later on.” 

“I—I will if you want me to,” said Little David, but the 
prospect did not seem to please him greatly. 

“You must do so,” said John Henry. “Do you remember how 
you trusted me implicitly when we first met?” 

Little David made no reply, but his grasp on John Henry’s 
hand, which had loosened a trifle, again became firm. 

“You must trust me in the same fashion,” said John Henry. 
“You must believe that I am acting for the happiness of all con¬ 
cerned, as indeed every one tries to do, although your happiness 
comes first of all in my mind. It does. Will you trust me 
implicitly, Little David?” 

Little David achieved a statement in the smallest of voices 
imaginable. 

“I will do anything you ask,” he said, “so long as it does not 
entail never seeing you again. I could not bear that for—for many 
reasons.” 

John Henry had a moment of temporary lunacy. 

“It is very dark here,” he said, “and there is no one about. 
Would you object very much if I—if I touched you, Little David?” 

It appeared that Little David had no active objection. 

“From the very first you have been in my heart,” said John 
Henry, after a few seconds, “only I did not understand the 
manner of it till last night. Then I did. Now I do not believe 
it can be true. Do you really care for me, Little David?” 

“I belong to you and to no one else,” said Little David with 


LITTLE DAVID FORGETS HIMSELF 


291 


extraordinary passion. “I care—oh! There is some one coming 
towards us!” 

There was. There were, to be exact, for young George appeared 
round the corner and he was accompanied by one of the theatre 
people who carried an electric torch. 

“We have been detained,” said John Henry with dignity, “by 
a train of remarkable circumstances quite impossible to explain, 
but we are coming now, at once.” 

As George Cornwall remarked to Muggie when they had reached 
the Red House, it was quite impossible to say what John Henry 
would do next. This remark was occasioned by two facts. The 
one was that John Henry has insisted on paying a call at his own 
home before starting on the journey to Litshot. The other was 
that he had sat next to Sheila during the said journey, and all 
his attentions were confined to her. He took no notice of Little 
David other than to see that the young gentleman was settled in 
comfort, 


CHAPTER XX 


THE STRANGE BEHAVIOUR OF JOHN HENRY MILLMAN 

The Red House had been in a state of confusion all day. John 
Henry’s sudden appearance there, his words, and his equally sud¬ 
den departure had not tended to lessen this distressing state of 
affairs. Muggie, having seen Sheila, George Cornwall, and young 
George start off for Town in the car to attend the dress rehearsal 
of John Henry’s play, felt the necessity of composing her feelings 
before she attacked the preparation of the feast arranged, long 
before, to mark the termination of John Henry’s theatrical com¬ 
plications. 

“If any one calls to see me, I am in Town,” she remarked to 
the little maid of all work, “but do not forget to waken me at 
six o’clock.” 

Having issued these instructions she retired to her room, but 
she was not left there in peace. She had scarcely composed herself 
to sleep when a timid scratching sounded at the door, and the 
voice of the little maid was heard speaking in apologetic tones. 

“There is a man with two eyes at the door who says he must 
have a word with you, ma’am!” 

Muggie groaned, but her sense of humour was tickled, also 
her curiosity was aroused. 

“A man with two eyes!” she exclaimed. “What do you mean? 
Most men have two eyes.” 

“Not like this one,” said the little maid with assurance. “I’ve 
seen him before. He comes from Tipping Horley.” 

“Show him and his eyes into the sitting-room,” said Muggie in 
a voice of resignation. “I shall be down in a few moments.” 

292 


STRANGE BEHAVIOUR OF JOHN HENRY 293 


On descending she found the gentleman with two eyes seated 
on the extreme edge of a chair in a melancholy attitude of great 
discomfort. He rose, as she came in, and his two eyes commenced 
to play a game of trying to see which could look furthest away 
from her face. Muggie was a placid soul, but she was genuinely 
startled. She stood and grasped the door in the manner of one 
prepared for immediate flight. 

“What do you want?” she gasped. 

“You! or boots! or anything they fancy!” said the gentleman 
with the eyes, and he made a ghostly pass with his hand as if 
indicating himself. 

Muggie became afflicted with nerves. 

“No one wears boots in this house,” she said. “We have none, 
nor shoes either.” 

The face of the odd man became illuminated with a joyous 
expression, and he regarded Muggie with profound admiration 
and respect. 

“There are some that seem to wear nothing else, to judge by the 
way they hanker after them,” he said, “but no matter.” He tapped 
himself on the chest. “Odd man from the Black Bull at Tipping 
Horley,” he said. “Mrs. Bluebell, likewise Fammy, has had a 
second visit from Mr. Canning, and she wanted you to know, for 
she advised him to see Mr. John Henry in London.” 

Muggie came into the room and sat down. 

“Tell me about it,” she commanded, and she waved the odd man 
back into his chair. 

The odd man, seating himself, opened his mouth, but he was 
prevented from speaking by a knock on the door. 

The head of the little maid protruded into the room, and her 
expression was both startled and warlike. 

“I’m very sorry I’m sure, m’am,” she said, “but will you see it?” 

She partially opened the door, but remained in the attitude of 
one strictly on the defensive. It was almost as if there were a 
chimpanzee, or some similar and disturbing creature, outside. 


294 


LITTLE DAVID 


Muggie and the odd man looked at each other in astonishment. 

“What is it?” asked Muggie with growing curiosity. 

“The wild woman come back,” said the little maid. “Her that 
smashed up the furniture and ruined my hair.” 

“Oh, Veronica!” said Muggie, greatly relieved. “Show her in 
at once.” 

Veronica’s lop-sided figure advanced slowly into the room. 

“I come down to see you,” she said to the odd man, “and they 
told me you were here. I’ve got a message for you from Mr. 
John.” 

“Sit down, Veronica,” said Muggie, “and make yourself at 
home. You are just in time. This gentleman was going to tell 
me about Mabel Canning’s father. Mrs. Bluebell has advised 
him to call at your house.” 

Veronica remained standing. 

“So—that is how he came,” she said. “I understand. He 
called and Mr. John was out. He will not call again. I saw to 
that.” 

Muggie became vastly curious. 

“What happened?” she asked. 

“Nothing,” said Veronica shortly, “except that Little David was 
scared at the sound of his voice, and Mr. John woke up when 
he came home and I told him the boy had disappeared. Spent 
the whole night out of bed, he did. He knows all about it now, 
and very happy he is, too, seeing that Miss Sheila is in love 
with him.” 

Muggie raised her hands in agonized protest and the odd man 
stiffened in his chair. 

“But she is not,” gasped Muggie. “She is not in love with him. 
It is all nonsense.” 

“Perhaps so,” said Veronica, “but is it not me that is going to 
tell him that.” 

It did not appear to be the odd man, or Muggie either, for that 
matter. 


STRANGE BEHAVIOUR OF JOHN HENRY 295 


“But now when he knows about Little David!” exclaimed 
Muggie in tones of anguish. 

“Precisely,” said Veronica, nodding her head, “he has thought 
about all that. He said, once he was married, there would be 
no reason why Little David should not stay on with him 
for ever. He also said that he would like to be married at 
once.” 

Muggie arose and commenced to adjust the various ornaments 
in the room. She felt the necessity of doing something to keep her 
mind occupied. Behind her back Veronica telegraphed an expres¬ 
sive glance at the odd man, signalling the fact that she wished 
them both to depart at once. Muggie paused by the window, and 
gave voice to a sudden decision. 

“They are all coming down here to supper,” she said. “Thank 
goodness I have the place to prepare and that will keep me busy. 
I am not going to think because I cannot. It is all too absurd. 
There must be some way out of the difficulty and it will turn up. 
Will you have a cup of tea, Veronica?” 

Veronica shook her head. 

“I got my living to earn,” she said. “I must be back in Town 
to-night, and I must give the odd man Mr. John’s message.” 

Muggie regarded Veronica with attention. 

“Do you mean to tell me that you have come all this distance to 
give a message to the odd man?” 

“I have,” said Veronica, “and why not! He asked me to do it!” 

“He asked her to do it,” repeated Muggie in a muted voice of 
exasperation, “so she came at once, without question! Might I 
ask what this wonderful message may be?” 

“Certainly,” said Veronica. “I shall give it to him now, and 
then you will hear.” She turned to the odd man. “Mr. John 
said,” she remarked, speaking with great distinctness, “that if you 
did not do it at once, he would have to come down and do it 
for you. He said also that he saw no reason why they should 
not all happen at the same time. He wants you to make quite 


296 


LITTLE DAVID 


certain on the subject before to-morrow, when he will come in to 
see you himself.” 

The effect of these words was peculiar and impressive. Muggie 
—she was dusting a small vase at the time—opened her mouth 
to make some forcible remark, but her mouth remained open and 
motionless. The odd man, rising from his chair with the sudden 
energy of one who has been pricked in the leg, retreated into a 
corner where he stood with his back to the wall, an expression of 
fear and horror on his face, and his hands moving in weird 
gestures, apparently repelling some unseen and much dreaded foe. 
The really peculiar part of it was that, although he appeared to 
be scared to the borders of terror, he also appeared to derive some 
satisfaction from the process. Veronica, watching him with a 
critical eye, snorted with disdain. 

“Of all the helpless creatures on the earth,” she remarked, 
“give me a man. Men”—Veronica grasped the air in an attempt to 
convey the profundity of her contempt—“are just men. What do 
you mean by it, you great baby?” 

The odd man, without explaining what he meant by it, con¬ 
tinued to do it with increased application, while his eyes per¬ 
formed perfect miracles of rapid motion. His face, also, grew a 
dull brick-red colour, but that was no doubt due to the violence of 
his exercises. 

“What is the matter with the man?” asked Muggie in real alarm. 
“He looks as if he were about to have a fit!” 

Veronica regarded her darkly. 

“There is something in him that has been there for a long time 
and has got to come out,” she said grimly. 

“Mercy on us, shall I call a doctor?” asked Muggie. 

Veronica snorted. 

“Mr. John is the only doctor he requires,” she said, “and he will 
have him, too, if he is not careful.” She turned to the odd man. 
“Now, will you promise to do it?” she demanded. 


STRANGE BEHAVIOUR OF JOHN HENRY 297 

Muggie’s heart melted at the sight of the odd man’s very genuine 
distress. 

“What is the trouble, my poor man?” she asked. “Can I do 
anything for you?” 

The odd man spoke in a voice of agony. 

He said: “A new one, or a bottle of poison! Some people 
would hit a man over the head with a broom, and I could not 
stand that. A man wants to keep what he thinks he has. No 
loss is some gain, and the least said the better for all.” 

“A new what?” demanded Muggie with curiosity. 

“Face!” said the odd man in a voice of profound and bottom¬ 
less gloom. 

Veronica suddenly moved to the door and opened it. She stood 
there and beckoned the odd man in a fierce and determined 
fashion. 

“There are some that require to be drove,” she remarked. “You 
come with me and do it now. You got to do it, for Mr. John 
says so, and he knows more about it than most people. Come 
along with you!” 

The odd man backed against the wall in a fruitless attempt to 
retire further from Veronica. A change came over his face. He 
seemed to be more afraid, but there was a quality of indignation 
in his fear. 

“A man might want to do a thing and yet not do it,” he said 
defensively. “He might even manage to do it, but not before a 
crowd.” 

Veronica beckoned with an inexorable finger. 

“No fear of crowds,” she said. “I want to see you go in at the 
door, and I want to see your face looking out of the door ten 
minutes after, and I want to tell you something that will make 
the matter simpler. You come away now with no more argument! 
I can hear that bus on the road, and we had best get inside.” 

The odd man went. Muggie followed the quaint pair to the 
door and watched them waiting for the bus. The little maid of 


298 


LITTLE DAVID 


all work came and stood beside her, and she also watched. 
Veronica appeared to be talking earnestly, and the odd man 
appeared to be listening with an attention that engulfed his own 
personal fears and discomforts. The groaning and panting of 
the bus came steadily nearer. 

“I wonder!” said Muggie, and she said no more. 

“I see they have left the gate open,” said the little maid art¬ 
lessly. “I had best go and shut it, m’am, for fear of them 
tramps!” 

Muggie made no reply and the little maid departed. It is 
interesting to note, however, that there must have been a peculiarity 
about that gate. The little maid went out into the road. Possibly 
the gate could not be shut unless this procedure was first of all 
enacted. Presently the bus came slowly along and the quaint pair 
clambered inside. 

“Eavesdropping,” said Muggie sternly, as the little maid 
returned, “is a thing I abominate—what was she talking about?” 

The little maid was agog with excitement. She lived partly in a 
world of dusting, scrubbing, and cleaning, and partly in a realm 
created by the reading of novels that cost twopence and have a 
relation to reality that is somewhat peculiar. Her outlook on life 
benefited in consequence. 

“It’s murder,” she said, “and they have gone to hide the 
bodies.” 

She had, by the way, been listening at the sitting-room door, 
and although her view through the key-hole had been limited, 
it had borne directly on the figure of the odd man. 

Muggie, while quite incredulous, was sufficiently curious to 
demand an exact repetition of Veronica’s words. 

“I didn’t rightly hear anything except one sentence owing to 
the noise of the bus,” said the little maid, “but I heard that all 
right.” 

“Well!” demanded Muggie. “What was it?” 

“ ‘They will both disappear for good and all and no one will be 


STRANGE BEHAVIOUR OF JOHN HENRY 299 


the wiser,’ ” repeated the little maid in an ecstasy. “That is what 
she said, and if you had seen how pleased he was you would 
know that it must be murder. My! I am excited!” 

“You come and grow excited over cleaning out the dining¬ 
room,” said Muggie sternly, but she was unable to fathom the 
meaning of Veronica’s words. 

“I wonder where they went to,” she muttered, pausing in 
the mixing of a pudding. “I wish I had eyes like—like 
the insect that can look round corners”—Muggie, in her extreme 
youth, had been in love, at one and the same time, with 
two gentlemen—one scientific and the other imaginative, 
and had culled therefrom stray fragments of knowledge 
both true and fanciful—“then I could stand here and watch 
them!” 

Since she had not, she went on with her task. It was a thousand 
pities, however, that she had not eyes of this accommodating 
nature if only for a few seconds. The sight she would have seen 
was one calculated to please anybody with the generous nature of 
Muggie, or even with one less generous. 

The odd man, with every outward appearance of a criminal 
about to be condemned, stood in Fammy’s kitchen. That good 
soul, after a swift glance at his face, had commenced to make 
preparations for tea on a somewhat gigantic scale for two people. 
She laid the cloth, cut the bread and butter, produced the cake, 
placed the kettle—it was just boiling, Fammy’s kettle was always 
on the point of boiling—ready on the hob, and having done all 
these things and again glanced at the odd man, who remained 
in the same position, she fell to cutting more bread and butter, and 
still more, till the loaf was in danger of being completely 
demolished. 

“That is the best news I have heard for many a long day,” she 
remarked, “and I believe Veronica is right. It will work out 
for the best,” and she went on with her task with a heightened 
colour. 


300 


LITTLE DAVID 


The odd man watched her, and when she had reached the last 
fragment of bread—it was the thinnest of crusts and not deserving 
of the care bestowed on it—he spoke, and his voice shook a 
trifle as if it were not quite under his control. 

“A man is as he was made—on the outside, but he can try 
to make himself better inside. I’ve been trying ever since I came 
here, ever since he spoke to me in the inn yonder. A man gets 
hard, and bitter, and sour, when everybody spits at him, and calls 
him names, and laughs because he is queer to look at. I’ve been 
searching for one thing for a long time and never thought to find 
it. I’ve been dreaming that I might find it now, but it is only a 
dream.” 

“What have you been looking for?” asked Fammy, and she 
commenced to spread more butter on that last piece of bread. 

“Happiness,” said the odd man, in an uneven tone of voice. 
“I wondered if you would give me a hand to find it.” 

Fammy, who disliked half measures, gave him both; and at that 
moment the long-suffering kettle boiled over with a cheerful 
bubbling and a wild gush of steam. 

“My clean hearth!” exclaimed the practical Fammy in horror, 
but the horror was slight and she left the kettle to itself. “Gra¬ 
cious!” she ejaculated, a second later, half laughing and half 
crying. “The man must be mad!” 

The odd man had lifted the offending kettle, and not contented 
with placing it in a position of safety, carried it bodily out of the 
kitchen, out of the house, and into the garden. There, having first 
of all waved it to Veronica who stood by the bend of the road, he 
placed it on a flat stone, and returned precipitately into the 
kitchen. 

“I have placed it on a stone to cool,” he remarked to Fammy. 

As Fammy said when they were in a fitting state to think about 
tea, he had better go and sit on the flat stone himself, while she 
made everything ready. If he remained where he was she might 
find herself pouring the hot water on the bread again, or putting 


STRANGE BEHAVIOUR OF JOHN HENRY 301 


jam in the cups in place of sugar. In view of their somewhat 
excited state this appeared to be a reasonable proposition. 

Veronica, having witnessed the waving of the kettle, stood for 
a long time by the bend of the road, and her sallow unlovely face 
grew very sad, and very odd to look at. She watched the cottage 
and she sighed, and presently there came to her ears the sound 
of a bus travelling towards Tipping Horley. The sound carried 
no meaning to her mind for her thoughts were roaming far afield; 
but when the bus hove in sight she shook herself after the fashion 
of a wet dog. 

“Not for the likes of me,” she said. “Fancy the fear; of bringing 
a creature like myself into the world! You got to find all that in 
his happiness and hers.” 

She stopped the bus, and climbed on, and her face worked so 
oddly that the conductor was half minded to bar her progress on 
the suspicion that she was mad. Veronica, who had a tongue, 
rapidly disillusioned him on this point. She did this so thoroughly 
that the man was diffident of following her up to the top to collect 
her fare. When he did, Veronica spoke to him. 

“What would you say if I were to ask you to marry me?” she 
demanded. 

The conductor, with some reason, almost fell backwards down 
the stairs. 

Veronica laughed. 

“I got a sense of humour in spite of my face,” she remarked. 
“I want a ticket for all the way.” 

She reached the abode of Mrs. Baldwin just as John Henry was 
handing Little David into the cab that took them to the theatre. 

“I’ve seen the odd man,” she remarked. “You do not require 
to worry about him any more. He has found what you have 
brought him.” 

John Henry's direct reply to this was wordless, and the taxi- 
driver, who had not suspected that Veronica and he were intimately 
acquainted, was astounded into almost swallowing his cigarette. 


302 


LITTLE DAVID 


Both he and the conductor of the country bus had something to 
say to their respective wives when their daily tasks were over. 

The bus-conductor said: “I wonder, supposing your face had 
been blown to bits the day before the wedding, if I would have 
married you!” 

His wife who was pretty, and blessed with no imagination, 
immediately accused him of being drunk. 

The taxi-driver said: “I seen some strange sights in my day, 
but you could have knocked me over with a feather. Ugly ain’t 
the word, and he hugged her as if she had been the Queen of 
Sheba. Then he said that everything was arranged for her to 
start off at night whenever he tipped her the wink. Disgraceful, 
I call it!” 

His wife who was a tired, worn-out creature of many regrets 
and some few sorrows, sighed!and looked wistfully at her owner 
and possessor. She seemed to be glad at the thought of some one, 
no matter who or what, being in receipt of a hug. She, poor soul, 
had parted company with such things many years before. 

John Henry possessed the instinctive faculty of making people 
think. It was not his fault. He just had it, as he had eyes, a 
nose, and teeth. No one can blame him. 

Muggie did quite a lot of thinking. She was still hard at the 
task when the sound of the car at the door apprised her of the 
arrival of her guests. The sight of John Henry’s radiant face, of 
Little David lost, apparently, in a dream, of Sheila and George 
Cornwall gloomily apprehensive, scattered her thoughts, which had 
commenced to become orderly and decent, and reduced her mind 
to a state of chaos. In this condition the sight of young George, 
sedate, normal, and full of youthful vigour, appealed to her im¬ 
mensely. She turned to him as a child might turn to its parent, 
insinuated him into a dark comer in the hall, and demanded 
enlightenment on what was going to happen in the matter of 
Sheila and John Henry. 

George appeared to be astonished. 


STRANGE BEHAVIOUR OF JOHN HENRY 303 


“Why!” he said. “They are both going to be married. What 
could happen to them? Any one can see that John Henry is 
happy.” 

Muggie, making no verbal reply, walked away holding her 
head in her hands. At the foot of the stairs she encountered Sheila 
and, although she was genuinely sorry for the disconsolate appear¬ 
ance of that young woman, her voice was fierce. 

“You have got to put a stop to all this nonsense,” she said. 
“If you do not speak to John Henry before the night is out, 
your father and I will do so. I refuse to be made a raving lunatic 
through worry before my time.” 

Sheila’s reply to this was to burst into tears, and at that George 
Cornwall and John Henry appeared at the top of the stairs; Little 
David emerged from the sitting-room; and young George, to 
whom the sight of Sheila weeping was more than he could stand, 
sprang forward and took her in his arms. Sheila wept in com¬ 
parative comfort, as one might say, but she wept bitterly for all 
that. The sound of her sobs drove George Cornwall down the 
stairs at a pace quite inconsistent with his years and corporeal 
development. The sound also drove all doubt and chaos from 
the mind of Muggie. 

The two elder members of the Cornwall family, advancing like 
the wings of an army, sought to detach and comfort the weeping 
girl. She, oddly enough, refused to be detached. In fact she clung 
to young George with remarkable persistence. The two advancing 
wings fell back and regarded each other in astonishment and dis¬ 
may. At this point Sheila spoke. 

“I—I would not feel it so much,” she said, “but you t have 
been so horrid. You do not seem to care at all, and you know 
what I promised when we commenced this wretched business.” 

Sheila was undoubtedly speaking to young George, and he as 
undoubtedly replied to her, and, also as undoubtedly, they had 
forgottten about the elder members of the Cornwall family, John 
Henry, Little David, and everybody but themselves. 


304 


LITTLE DAVID 


John Henry, who had been watching the scene from the bend of 
the stairs, descended as young George commenced to reply in a 
whisper audible only to Sheila. The elder members of the Corn¬ 
wall family, with a total lack of logic, turned on him and simultan¬ 
eously uttered the same remark. 

“This is all your fault,” they said in indignant chorus. 

“I am sure I hope it is,” said John Henry simply. 

Sheila created a diversion. She suddenly stopped weeping, 
wrenched herself free from young George, and, advancing to the 
side of John Henry at a single bound, flung her arms round his 
neck and kissed him on both cheeks one after the other. Having 
done this she as suddenly swerved upon Little David, and caught 
him by the shoulders as if about to shake him with violence. 
Whether it was the way in which that young gentleman looked at 
her, or whether it was because he shrank and shrivelled within 
his overcoat, is impossible to tell; but, if her original intention was 
to shake, it was not carried out. For some inexplicable reason 
the two young things, after regarding each other for a few seconds, 
embraced and kissed with fervency. 

“I was angry with you at one time,” said Little David to Sheila, 
“but I do not think I could be angry with any one to-night, least 
of all with you, my one girl friend.” 

“I was annoyed at your going about like that,” said Sheila to 
Little David, “and you were a pig not to take me into your con¬ 
fidence, but you can go on in the same clothes for the rest of your 
life. It will make no difference to me. We have always under¬ 
stood each other.” 

George Cornwall gave undoubted signs of embarking on the 
procedure known as “putting his foot down.” 

“What is the meaning of all this?” he demanded, and he was 
was about to say a great deal more when Sheila turned her atten¬ 
tion to him. 

“It means that John Henry and I are both going to be married,” 
she said, “but not to each other.” 


STRANGE BEHAVIOUR OF JOHN HENRY 305 


“Indeed, and pray to whom are you to be married?’’ demanded 
George Cornwall, eluding her grasp. 

Sheila, succeeding in catching hold of him, hid a very red face 
on his shoulder. 

“Ask John Henry,” she said in a muffled voice. 

“When I saw these two beautiful young creatures on Tipping 
Horley platform,” said John Henry, “I saw, at once, that they 
were made, cut out for each other. When I found out that they 
were aware of the fact I was overjoyed, and when I learnt that 
you two good people refused to believe it, I determined to make 
it quite plain to you. I might not have interfered, you know, but 
George, poor boy, has a reason for not pressing his suit. A 
reason,” repeated John Henry looking at George Cornwall and 
Muggie, “that exists only in his own imagination. I expected 
this to happen to-night, but not quite so soon. I had calculated 
on the effect of my speech at supper about Sheila’s marriage to 
myself.” 

At this point Little David gave a startled gasp, and Sheila, 
looking up in alarm, addressed a remark to him. 

“I have quite a lot to tell you to-night, dear,” she said. 

“Oh indeed!” said Little David with reserve. 

There was a moment of silence during which Sheila looked 
abashed, Little David indignant, John Henry dignified, the two 
elder members of the Cornwall family bewildered, the little maid of 
all work—she was watching the scene from behind the kitchen 
door with goggling eyes—like an image of curiosity, and then 
young George commenced to laugh. He did so at first in a nervous 
and constrained fashion, but presently, throwing back his head, 
he roared in a full, throaty, and whole-hearted manner that was 
exceedingly contagious. George Cornwall looked at Muggie and 
attempted to frown, but the corners of his mouth twitched. Muggie 
looked at him and the tears came to her eyes, but the comers of 
her mouth twitched also. They advanced to meet each other, 
moved, it seemed, by a common impulse. They met and clasped 



306 


LITTLE DAVID 


hands, and then they stood together and commenced to smile— 
rather a tremulous smile at first, for they both felt old and rather 
forlorn. 

George went on roaring with back-flung head. 

John Henry, casting off his air of dignity as if it had been a 
garment, took a species of large step, or bound, or stride, you 
may call it what you please, and reaching the side of Little David 
by this means, encircled that young man with one arm in a pro¬ 
tective and rather engaging fashion. Little David, thus taken 
charge of, was seen to quiver a little. He grew red, then white, 
then his lips trembled and his hands took a firm grasp on John 
Henry’s coat. He hid his face from sight for moments on end, 
and when he looked up again there was a decided smile about the 
corners of his mouth, which looked anything but a straight, 
determined line. 

All this happened in so many minutes and still George went 
on roaring with back-flung head and open mouth, only now his 
laugh had taken such possession of him that his eyes were closed, 
and he twisted himself into strange contortions. Sheila, perceiv¬ 
ing this, lost her abashed and chastened air. She appeared to be 
struck with an idea, and this idea nearly swept the little maid of 
all work under the kitchen table, for it carried Sheila into that 
room with great suddenness. She re-appeared, in a second, with 
something in her hand, crept up to the unconscious and swaying 
George, and, taking aim with great and commendable caution, 
slipped the kitchen soap into his mouth. 

George stopped laughing on a stifled gasp, but that did not 
matter for then the others began. They went on as George pursued 
Sheila round and round the hall, and neither George Cornwall nor 
Muggie made any objections to what George did to that young 
woman when he caught her. As the laughter was about to subside, 
the little maid of all work suddenly emerged from the kitchen, 
where she had been bottling up her mirth, and sitting down on the 
last step of the stairs, flung her apron over her head and com- 


STRANGE BEHAVIOUR OF JOHN HENRY 307 


menced a shrill solo on her own. She looked so odd, and she had 
gathered so many strange substances on her dress, arms, and face, 
when Sheila had swept her into the kitchen, that they all com¬ 
menced to laugh afresh, at her, and with her. 

You never heard such a din, or saw such an odd sight in all 
your life, and on the wings of this laughter many things passed 
silently away that were best forgotten. Innocent mirth is a wonder¬ 
ful healer, a magic balsam that smooths over sore places and leaves 
a refreshing sense of well-being in its train. George Cornwall 
and Muggie quite forgot that they ever had held any objection to a 
possible marriage between Sheila and George. Sheila forgot all 
about her period of trial and confused suffering when she had 
imagined herself engaged to John Henry. Little David com¬ 
menced to believe that there never had been anything in his life 
to make for any element other than happiness. As for John 
Henry, he did not laugh much, but his face was very happy, very 
happy and very full of thought. You might have sworn—if 
happiness were a concrete thing that could be faced and seen in 
relation to others—that John Henry was looking at happiness and 
thanking it for being there. 

They might all be laughing to this very day, for the antics of the 
little maid on the stairs were exceedingly funny, but the sound 
of a car throbbing up to the door dried up the general mirth, at 
once, with sudden completeness. The entire Cornwall family, 
including the little maid, looked at one another with amazed 
apprehension. Little David, in a sudden panic, clung to John 
Henry. John Henry looked towards the door and he did not 
seem to be one whit astonished. 

There was a knock. There were a succession of knocks, and no 
one ventured to open the door. The hour, it must be remembered, 
was late. It was after midnight. 

The door opened a trifle and Veronica’s sallow face peeped in. 
It disappeared immediately and then the door opened wide, and 
a small procession entered. Veronica’s lop-sided figure came 


308 


LITTLE DAVID 


first, very much to one side indeed, for she led some one by the 
hand who seemed unwilling, yet eager, to enter. It was Philip 
Canning. Behind them, from the gloom, emerged the figures of 
Fammy and the odd man. They stood just inside the doorway, 
hand in hand, and the driver of the car peered over their shoulders 
in obvious curiosity. 

George Cornwall was so astonished that he sat down plump on 
a chair—it was fortunate that one stood behind him or he would 
have gone down to the floor—and gasped, and stared, evidently 
doubting the testimony of his senses. Little David gasped and 
clung to John Henry. The others were petrified into silence and 
immovability except the little maid of all work, who, recognising 
the odd man and Veronica, was heard to mutter with great satis¬ 
faction: “Now for them murdered bodies!” 

Veronica drew Philip Canning into the middle of the hall, 
directly under the gas-jet, and there she left him with the air of 
one who has carried her labours to a satisfactory conclusion. 

The sudden change from the darkness to the brilliant light of 
the hall was, no doubt, responsible for a part of Philip Canning’s 
appearance of helplessness. The oddness of his entry, his strange 
companions, and the sight of the astonished Cornwall staring at 
him, did not tend to lessen it. He looked, what he was, a man 
well on in life who had lived for years in the bondage of his own 
pride and reserve, and who had stepped out and beyond these 
things into an understanding of the facts that matter in life. He 
looked, in fact, as John Henry had imagined and hoped that he 
would. He was very sad, very weary, very hopeless, and exceed¬ 
ingly pathetic. He stood, for a moment, immovable, then he 
made a curious, helpless motion with his hands and turned to John 
Henry. 

“I have done as you asked,” he said. “I have come here with 
these people without question. What have you to tell me?” 

It was not necessary for John Henry to say anything. 

Little David, abandoning his hold on John Henry’s coat, tearing 


STRANGE BEHAVIOUR OF JOHN HENRY 309 


off that strange contraption which reduced the unruliness of his 
hair and made his head appear as the head of one that is male, 
rushed to the bowed figure under the light and threw himself upon 
his breast. 

“Father!” sobbed Little David, “forgive me! I was lonely 
and used to dress up as a boy. I was angry because you suspected 
me unjustly and so I went away. I have always tried to get you 
to love me, and I shall try again hard. Only say that you for¬ 
give me, and do not look so sad. I have done nothing to be 
ashamed of. I assure you I have not.” 

Philip Canning’s arms closed on the palpitating figure which 
he strained to his heart. 

“If you had done all the evil things on earth, you would still 
be my child,” he said, and his voice shook. “I have nothing to 
forgive. It is your forgiveness that I must beg for.” 

If you have any conception of what a merry supper-party it was 
that took place that night in the small dining-room of the Red 
House, if you have the remotest idea of how cramped they were for 
space, if you have the slightest idea of the strange actions per¬ 
petrated by the little maid of all work in the process of serving 
the same, if you have even a fragment of an idea of the Satisfaction 
on all their faces, then you have some conception of how wonderful 
happiness really and truly can be. When the mirth, and the 
merriment, and the laughter, and the satisfaction of all were at 
their height, John Henry suddenly rose with his glass in his hand. 

“We must not forget the poor sick boy,” he said. “Let us 
drink to his complete recovery. It will please him to hear that 
we thought of him in the midst of all this.” 

As Sheila remarked to Little David, when they were going to 
bed, it was just like John Henry. Perhaps it was. He cannot 
be blamed for it. He was made that way. 


CHAPTER XXI 


IN WHICH LITTLE DAVID BECOMES LOST FOR EVER 

Of all the good days in the week—Sunday. Of all the good 
hours in that day of rest—noon. Of all the bright days in the 
year when the sun shines to chase away glooih, perhaps one of the 
sunniest, and brightest, and most cheerful that ever has been. 
Of all the good spots to be in on such a day, at such an hour—a 
small country church, plain, unostentatious, set in a humble little 
garden where the flowers are simple crosses, unpretentious grave¬ 
stones, sincere testimonies—for when the purse is small a grave¬ 
stone is a testimony—to the virtues of mankind. Of all the poor 
livings in the gift of the church, perhaps one of the poorest. Of 
all the frugal, earnest, humble priests, perhaps one of the simplest 
and humblest—a man who entered the church, not through the 
doorway of the universities, but through the door of faith, and 
the charity and help of others. You must bear with me for a 
few seconds and deign to enter this humble place of worship. 

There is a marriage taking place inside. There are, to be 
exact, three marriages taking place at one and the same time. If 
you examine the group at the altar you will see none but familiar 
faces. I am unwilling to look at them. It is a pain to me, and 
also a pleasure, for to them I must soon say good-bye. It is 
always so in life—the meeting, the short time together, and 
then the parting. 

That young man who holds himself so proudly is John Henry 
Millman. The vision in white which stands so close to him, yes, 
that was once Little David, but he is now in process of being lost 
for ever. Perhaps that is why the voice of the white vision is so 

310 


LITTLE DAVID LOST FOREVER 


311 


low and tremulous when speech is necessary. I do not know. 
There are many things I do not know. That other young man, 
who also holds himself with pride and is so carefully dressed, 
yes, that is young George; and beside him, a perfect picture of 
enchanting beauty, stands Sheila, very soon to be Sheila Cornwall 
no longer. A little further along, completing the half circle before 
the surpliced clergyman with the simple, earnest face—you will 
recognise that face, for it once looked into John Henry’s box 
at the theatre, and is, in fact, closely related to the sick boy— 
stands an odd couple. You know them both. You could not 
mistake those roaming eyes even though the owner of the same 
is disguised in a new suit of clothes, and his olden melancholy 
has totally vanished. It is the odd man, and beside him, in all 
the glory of her buxom personality, stands Fammy—a Fammy 
transfigured by innumerable ribbons, and laces, and by the good¬ 
ness of her own heart shining out in her face. 

You know all these and you know the others also. They are 
all near by, standing in ones or twos, in an irresponsible and 
curious fashion, for this is no ordinary wedding. There is no 
attempt at form or ceremony. It is just the simple giving of so 
many female hearts into the keeping of so many pairs of male 
hands. It is bound to be an odd ceremony, for John Henry has 
made all the arrangements by himself. From the time when there 
was a midnight supper-party at the Red House, he has been busy, 
carrying out his designs, with no argument or hindrance from 
anybody. 

There are a few people in the body of the church, but never 
mind them. They are merely there. They have come in to look 
on, like myself, and do not count. You must confine your 
attention to the group by the altar. Philip Canning is there, yes, 
that is the senior partner of Canning and Canning although you 
may have to look several times at him to make sure that it is 
not some simple, happy man with a chance resemblance to that 
once great and awe-inspiring personality. Ralph Seymour and 


312 


LITTLE DAVID 


Sinclair Dodds stand together, a little apart, and to the right. 
You would never mistake them although they also seem to be 
changed—happier and easier in their relationship to life, perhaps. 
Veronica—you cannot mistake Veronica, even though she may be 
hidden in clothes of an astonishing smartness, for her face is 
working in the old, odd way that it used to work under the 
influence of any strong emotion—stands alone; and she holds her¬ 
self proudly, for is she not in sole charge of a certain small house, 
tastefully, artistically, and newly furnished from top to bottom! 
Veronica is exceedingly proud, and also exceedingly happy. She 
looks forward to seeing—oh, to seeing many things that will 
fill up certain waste places in her own life. The two goggling 
eyes directly behind her belong to the little maid of all work from 
the Red House; and the two middle-aged people, who stand close 
together as if facing some prospect of loneliness, you will easily 
recognise as George Cornwall and Muggie. You could make no 
mistake in that direction for their four eyes are glistening in an 
odd and unaccountable fashion. Where you might make a mistake 
is in the seated figure beside the old man. You will recognise the 
old man, at once, as the ancient porter from Tipping Horley 
station, but you will have to look twice at the figure on the chair. 
He is not strong enough to bear the strain of standing, poor boy, 
but he is strong enough to be on the direct road to health and a 
complete recovery. 

John Henry says that the sick boy is better through the bounty 
of Philip Canning, but the sick boy holds other views. Perhaps 
both of them are correct to some extent. It is hard to tell. Any¬ 
way, there he is, and you can judge from his face whether he is 
pleased to be present or not. 

I will not keep you waiting for it is soon over, this simple 
ceremony, and there is no necessity to say anything more about it. 
Listen, and you will hear the organ pealing, the bells ringing, 
and if you listen well, perhaps you may hear several happy hearts 
beating to a tune of joy. It is all very ordinary, and customary, 


LITTLE DAVID LOST FOREVER 


313 


and infinitely boring, no doubt. I must ask your forgiveness for 
the absence of beautiful dresses, and fashionable crowds, and 
famous clergy, and all the other appurtenances that should grace 
a proper wedding. They have no part here where there is nothing 
but joy and happiness—small matters for me to draw your atten¬ 
tion to; but on the very first page I stated that this was not a 
decent novel, or a proper work of fiction. It is only a piece of 
life. Let us pass on to listen to several scraps of conversation 
between the occupants of divers carriages on the drive from the 
church to the Black Bull at Tipping Horley. 

“Do you remember my stating -that, if Mr. Canning consulted 
Millman about his missing daughter, it would bind him to our 
firm for good?” asks Sinclair Dodds of Ralph Seymour. 

“I do,” says Ralph Seymour, “and you never made a truer 
statement in your life. I would like to know how it all came 
about, for this wedding is very sudden, and odd, and quite 
unexpected.” 

“I shall be a very lonely man,” says Philip Canning to George 
Cornwall and Muggie. “You must come over and see me occa¬ 
sionally. The distance is not great.” 

“We shall,” say the two elder members of the Cornwall family, 
“and we expect you to come to us just whenever you please.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” says Fammy to the odd man. “Remem¬ 
ber how old we are. You should know better!” 

The odd man pays no attention to her words. 

“George,” says Sheila suddenly, “if you imagine that I am 
going to obey you for the rest of my life, you are greatly mistaken. 
I shall do just what I think best, and I reserve the right to 
embrace John Henry whenever I feel like it.” 

“As the newly-wed wife of a newly-made junior partner in a 
wealthy publishing firm,” says George judicially, “it might be a 
wise reservation. Still, I hope you may feel like embracing some 
one else occasionally.” 

It appears that Sheila feels like that now. 


314 


LITTLE DAVID 


“I got special instructions to see that you had the most com¬ 
fortable seat, so it is no good offering it to us. Anyway we 
are not ladies, at least she may be, I’m not I’m just a happy 
woman,” says Veronica to the sick boy. 

The little maid of all work, still under the influence of her 
twopenny novels, becomes vastly indignant for a second, but that 
soon passes. 

“Why, we have got there already and there was something I 
wanted to ask you!” says the white vision to John Henry, as their 
carriage stops at the Black Bull. 

John Henry leans out of the window and speaks to the driver. 

“Drive on to the cross-roads and then come back—slowly,” he 
says. 

“I believe I love you more now than I did when I was Little 
David,” says the white vision seriously, when the carriage has 
moved on, “but that was not what I was going to say.” 

“We are almost back again now,” exclaims John Henry pres¬ 
ently, in a surprised tone of voice. “The man must have thought 
I told him to hurry!” 

“What made you so determined to have the wedding lunch at 
the Black Bull?” asks the white vision. “I have wanted to know 
all along, but I did not like to ask.” 

John Henry’s face grows grave, and a far-away expression 
comes into his eyes. 

“I want you to have unhappy memories of no place on earth 
where we two have been together,” he says simply, “and you were 
very unhappy that night. I thought to-day might dispel the 
other from your mind.” 

“I never want to forget it,” says the white vision, and she kisses 
John Henry fiercely in spite of the bronchial efforts of the 
coachman at the carriage door. 

The Black Bull has been in a state of turmoil and excitement 
from the first blink of dawn. The maid-servants have all been 
on the verge of hysterics and recovered when no one paid any 


LITTLE DAVID LOST FOREVER 


315 


attention to them. The new odd man—he is young and full of 
what the landlord calls “cheek”—has surreptitiously eaten a meal 
sufficient for half a dozen. The landlord and the landlady have 
made the one public room of the inn look a credit to the Black 
Bull, or any other species of bull that has ever existed. All the 
Tipping Horley Minstrels, in ones and twos, have been in to 
inspect that room, and their admiration has been unqualified. 

If you look in now, you will see the company from the church 
seated round the long table with John Henry and his bride at the 
head, and young George and his bride on the right-hand side, and 
the odd man and his bride on the left. If you wait for a second, 
you will see that George Cornwall and Muggie are in animated 
conversation, explaining matters to Ralph Seymour and Sinclair 
Dodds; and you will notice that Philip Canning is listening and 
putting in a word every now and then. If you wait for a few 
seconds longer, you will perceive that the entire table is listening to 
their conversation. You will readily understand that John Henry 
is hearing it by the sudden and reserve dignity of his expression. 

If you still care to linger, you will hear Ralph Seymour say 
in a bewildered whisper: “Mr. Canning led into your house at 
midnight by the—by the lady on your left! How could Millman 
think of such an idea?” 

You will then hear the lady on George Cornwall’s left snort, 
rap the table with her knife, and speak in no uncertain voice. 

“I begs to point out that there is no lady on Mr. Cornwall’s left, 
only Veronica the charity foundling, although she is a proper 
servant now. As for how Mr. John came to think of such an 
idea that is easy to understand. It was because he did not think 
of himself but only of the other people.” 

As there is a certain element of fierceness about Veronica’s 
voice and general deportment, John Henry is entreated to make a 
speech. He rises to his feet. If you look at him carefully, you 
will see that he has a decided list to the one side. The vision in 
white is solely responsible for this. She is holding.on to one of 


316 


LITTLE DAVID 


his hands under cover of the table-cloth. His eyes travel all 
round the table from face to face and he smiles, but they rest, 
finally, on the sick boy seated between Muggie and the ancient 
porter, and then the smile fades from his eyes. 

“Are you quite sure you will be none the worse for all this ex¬ 
citement?” he asks earnestly, and is as earnestly reassured. “Then 
there is no necessity for me to say-a single word,” he continues, 
and the smile has returned to his eyes. “We are all happy. I 
can see it quite distinctly!” 

If you linger a few seconds longer, you will have no doubt that 
they are all happy. You will have no doubt on quite a number 
of other points also, such as the solemnity, pathos, and humour of 
even so simple an affair as this marriage lunch. You will have 
no doubt either that the vision in white, while being quite assured 
that John Henry is capable of looking after herself and any other 
odd person as well, is quite incapable of looking after the gentle¬ 
man known as John Henry Millman. You will observe that she 
has taken on the task with enthusiasm. You will not fail to see 
this even before they are half way through lunch; but I advise 
you to leave the room in the moment of silence after John Henry 
has spoken to the sick boy. 

I prefer to leave them at that point, for they were all looking 
at John Henry, all thinking the same thought, all quite assured 
that there was nothing extraordinary about his manner of doing 
things, for it was a manner quite of his own, and came straight 
from his own heart. It did. He was, you must admit, an odd 
creature and also a very foolish one. His folly, however, appeared 
to give pleasure to other people, now and then, so perhaps it was 
justified. I do not know. I like to believe that it was, and to 
imagine that you may think so also; for, to him, it was not folly, 
it was just—life! 


THE END 






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